The Copper Lantern
by pitkat
Summary: Notoriety lives on duality. A reputation can afford hard earned perks, yet also breeds a blinding pride. Attaining such recognition for Zevran was wholly by accident, but once he had it, the high was more intense than any herb he could refine or woman he could lure. And the lengths he would go to keep it were to define his character for the rest of his days.
1. Part One

Hi Everyone! This is a character study I have been working on for the better part of a year. It is meant to be five parts when it is finished. I've always been particularly fond of Zevran's character in Dragon Age: Origins and wished that his back-story was a bit more substantial relative to the other companion characters in the game. So, I figured I'd take a shot at it. Please note, Daedric and Daelish are almost the same thing - it's a term explained in a later part of the story.

Let me know what you think! Happy Reading!

**The Copper Lantern**

**Part One **

Zevran was born in a brothel deep in the heart of Antiva City. He was an only child surrounded by the folly of a prostitute's profession. Yet, if asked, he would say his childhood was a happy one. The children would often run up and down the open halls, hiding in cupboards, stealing from the clients, hassling the Mothers who cared for the women residing there. He would get a good swat if he got in the way, but adult business was a far away concern to a child.

His mother died long before he could even call her name. To him, the Mothers were his mother, although they looked nothing like him. They all had greying brown locks. They were pudgy, soft and squishy. The other children were like dark-skinned siblings. They were mostly Shem, but it made no difference to them that he had fair complexion, white-blonde hair, or Daedric features. He could run fast and got away with treats most of the others could never get to if they wished. Life was good. It was all he knew.

Then an old man came to the brothel. He was not interested in renting a woman, and instead, he asked for all the boys to be lined up against a wall. The Mothers did as told, pointing at each with their name, rough age, and qualities as the elder passed. To Zevran, he was tall and wore a long white beard. Years of a hard life washed out into the wrinkles on his face and hands. The figure stopped at the boy's feet and peered down his narrow bridge into young golden eyes, asking the caretaker how old he was.

"Answer him," The Mother demanded.

"Seven," was Zevran's reply.

The man turned to the woman after some pause and dropped a coin into her hand.

From that point on, Zevran was no longer in the care of the brothel and its Mothers. Hastily, his few belongings were gathered, and the boy was ushered out the door and into the busy streets of Antiva City.

Still, even then his life became more interesting than tragic. The old man brought them to the outskirts of the City. It was a quaint villa filled to the brim with books and plants. A cat kept guard of the kitchen and there was a broad veranda on the top floor from which the boy could see most of the coastline. Zevran had never seen the ocean before and would prefer to spend as much time as he could on the balcony overlooking the distant water. He was given a bed in a small room off the main landing. It seemed this stranger might have adopted him, or so the boy thought.

Over time, he learned the old man's name was Master Philippe Naheeme. At first, Zevran was instructed to carry out only minor tasks – deliver messages, carry goods back from the market, clean the rooms he was allowed to venture into. Eventually, he learned to cook and tend the garden out back, whilst the maid lent to the Master was returned to his friend. The old man did not speak much to the boy other than to direct him to his next chore, and Zevran chose not to think much of it. He got a clean bed and plenty of food and fresh clothes as he was quickly outgrowing the rags he wore back in the City.

Many, many visitors came and went through Master Naheeme's home. Every day there seemed to be people at the door, and it was Zevran's job to see that their needs were met. He was ordered never to speak to any of them. To some, he was never allowed to even look at them in the eye for to do so was very disrespectful. He was to take their cloak or hood in silence, guide them to the sitting room near the front foyer, give them wine and then leave. Most of the time, he obeyed. However, sometimes he would sit just outside in the hallway and eavesdrop. His intention was not to deliberately listen in, but he was curious. He wondered who these people were and why they always came around in such secrecy.

They came at all hours of the day and night too, and the boy was expected to answer no matter the time. He began to recognize some of the visitors. There was a younger man, whom always dressed in dark brown. He had a deep scar on the left side of his chin. He was also one of the few that spoke warmly to the child, one day leaning over in the hallway and whispering, "Careful not to listen so closely this time unless you want your Master to catch you."

Caught off guard, the boy stayed away from the hall entirely, at least for a couple of days. His courage worked up again the next time the man visited. He asked, "What's your name?"

The man chuckled, "You may call me Vinter."

A broad smile crossed the child with this new friend.

Others were not so congenial. They saw him and openly sneered, questioning the old man why he would waste his time on the knife-ear. He would surely die from whatever the man proposed to do with him. They saw the lithe stature and narrow features he possessed like the housecat saw the mouse she hunted on lazy afternoons. He was easily discredited and spoken down to, for which the boy could not understand. All he did was take their coat and offer them a drink.

On days there were no guests calling at the door or chores to do around the villa, Zevran was told to sit with the old man in a small reading room near the rear of the house. In truth, the boy was already a bit too inquisitive and sometimes ventured into the archive late at night when the Master was fast asleep behind a dusty book. The tomes all carried a brand of academy to them. He pushed up the page the old man was reading and peered at the scrawl blankly. Turning a couple of leafs, he ultimately landed on a series of intricate drawings, mostly of various plants and shrubs he could not identify. None of these things were in their garden. But, the artwork was endless and lifelike. It enthralled him. So, one day as he sat on the floor of the library, the boy could not help himself as he slipped a book off the shelf and slowly opened the cover when he thought the elder was not paying attention.

"What are you doing?" The Master muttered behind the easel he was leaning on. For weeks, he was writing into his own tome, abandoning sheets of parchment to float around the room filled with his discarded thoughts and sketches.

The boy regretted his action and moved the book back to the shelf.

"I asked what you were doing."

The child stilled himself much like he did back at the brothel when he was finally caught with something he should not have. Biting his lower lip, he thought it better to not answer.

But the old man was not satisfied. He dropped the writing feather onto the table beside him and faced Zevran, "Speak when I ask you a question."

"I took a book off the shelf," he whispered.

"Why?"

The boy shrugged. He was bored, but he was not about to say that. The Master retrieved himself from the stool and walked over to him. Stern blue eyes flowed over the sandy mop below seemingly pinning the child to the floor. Slowly, he leaned over to the shelf and picked out the dark binder, noting petite outlines from where the thief touched it moments before.

Zevran was waiting for the blow to come, subconsciously wincing as the man pulled himself upright and flipped opened the cover.

He snorted, "You are interested in maps?"

The child sat on his hands and looked up. Shyly he nodded.

"Well, why did you nigh say something?" He huffed. The man turned back and dropped the book casually on the desk. Dust billowed out into the room. With a tired groan, he sat on his stool again motioning for the child to follow, "Come here. I will show you."

Suddenly, each day was charged with a lesson. The almanac he chose was by accident, but that choice resulted in Zevran having to memorize every single map in the bloody room. He could recognize none of the symbols, but that mattered little as he was taught to see the name and recognize it. Each place, each map had a special history too, and the Master rattled on for hours about who drew the atlas and why. Most were exploratory in nature and most were of the coastline. The old man would retell fables of pirates still travelling the waters to this day and the treasures they carried with them to and from various kingdoms to the South.

The boy learned that Antiva in was very wealthy kingdom. He should feel lucky to live in a place where there was no shortage of import or blight of disease. Most of their realm was surrounding by land, but there was a narrow window of ocean in the east to their name. The Arlethan Forest, also known as the Daelish Wood, hovered to the north and Qunari lands even farther. To the west lay Tavinter, and to the south Navarra and the Free Marches. They lived in the desert, which was dry and uninhabitable to most. Only the eastern country was comfortable with seasonal rain and good crops where the Pillar Mountains merged into the giant Weyrs River.

Other maps were of the inland terrain covering forests and mountain chains. Zevran asked what the Daelish Wood was and why most maps suddenly stopped at it borders.

"Because of the savages that live within, boy. Most who venture there never come back."

"Who are they?" His attention now peeked.

The Master chuckled a bit darkly, glancing down at him, "Your ancestors."

A daily routine began to form as the weeks and months went by. In the morning, Zevran made breakfast, fed the cat, plucked goods from the garden, dusted the main hallway, cleaned his room and the archive, made lunch, sat in the foyer whist the Master attended to guests, ran errands into the nearby village and retrieved dinner, tidied again, and then sat for lessons in the archive for the evening. On odd days, he was also required for laundry and any other chores that happened to crop up. And of course answer the door whenever anyone called, no matter the time. Most of the day was boring, and the child would spend his timing redrawing memorized images in the books he stared at the night before. He was intrigued by the notion of the Daelish. He had little reference for the term "ancestor" but thought it interesting that the Master would connect him with it.

The lessons eventually expanded beyond almanacs and story telling. The old man started to show him what the words in the books meant, telling the child to recite the phrases clearly as he went. Most of the prose had little context though, and the Master broke the words apart so he could more easily digest them. He seemed more excited to have a pupil than Zevran was to learn, and even when the younger began to protest his exhaustion in earnest, the elder would point at the text and order him to recite it again until correct. With this, the boy learned to read and write four languages in eight years.

The old man was beginning to have trouble walking and required a cane wherever he went. Zevran often travelled with him simply to carry things and help him up steps. They visited many stately places around the City from grand open palaces to more modest, but no less vibrant, villas to the Chantry. He felt humbled the first time he saw the Chantry. Zevran never saw walls so tall before, and the echo of the Sister's hymns sent a soothing shiver inside him. He was only allowed into the Great Hall while the Master spoke to whomever he was there to see, but that was enough to occupy the boy. He would walk down the edge of his enclosure, gaping toward the arched ceiling. Each alcove he traced opened into another room or nook with ornate stone statues. People stood about reading from ancient tomes, and a persistent hum pervaded the place. He could not tell what it was, but it felt familiar somehow.

Zevran was also required to get all of the supplies for the Master, usually on the way home from their weekly excursions. The first time the child was sent on this errand, he did not come back with all of the goods.

"I need everything on the list. Go back out there and retrieve them."

"But," he protested. "I nigh had enough coin."

"Of course you did," the old man scolded. "You paid too much, is all."

"I nigh can haggle. They throw me out if I haggle."

This was not a sufficient answer, and the pair was back out the door with the list in hand. It was a bit embarrassing to watch the elder approach the street merchant knowing he would be in for a quarrel. The boy spent a better part of thirty minutes arguing that he was being given a different price than the Shem just before him. And the merchant knew whom he was shopping for. So incensed, the trader nearly swiped the boy in the face and threatened to throw him off the merchant block for daring to mouth back. Yet, to Zevran's shock, only cheery hellos and banter flowed between Master and his nemesis, and soon enough, the youngster was called out from the alley he was hiding in to speak straight to the merchant.

"What was on the list?"

Bitterly, the child looked up to the clerk. The old man nudged him again and a sullen answer followed, "Barley."

The merchant sniggered and pulled out the stash Zevran amassed from their earlier encounter, "Eight ginny."

"Oh, come now. Certainly, we could find a better price," the old man chortled with a rare smile. He pointed down at the child, "He cost me too much on his shopping today, and I need the remainder for dinner, yes?"

For the first time in his short life, Zevran felt deeply insulted, jerking up to the old man in utter disbelief. He had no intention of costing anyone anything!

But the ploy seemed to work. The merchant glanced down at the boy whom now carried a pained and worried expression and sighed, "Six."

"Five."

"Fine."

The old man grinned and dug into his purse. As the two began to pull away into the alley, he tugged the child aside, "Did you see what I did?"

Anger seeped into view, as Zevran vehemently wanted to tell his elder all the ways in which he hated him. Instead, he managed a, "No."

"Merchantry is an art that requires finesse. You nigh can expect to be given a fair deal."

"But," he whined. "He gave someone else a better price. I was standing right there!"

"Yes," he nodded, a grandfatherly tone emerging beneath his bushy beard, "and how much did your dispute with the merchant buy you?"

He stood up again and motioned for home. The old man said such things took practice, and so each time Zevran ventured back out for various errands, he was purposely given less coin to buy what he needed. After a while, it became a game between them, and whenever he returned triumphant in childish exuberance from whatever deal/plea/sad expression he could muster for a better price, he was allowed to keep what he did not manage to spend.

This was first time the boy had coin all his own. He did not know what to do with it, in fact. Carefully, he would tuck the money away into the gloves his mother left for him, neatly tying up the wrist knots to form a makeshift purse. For safe keeping, of course.

Occasionally, they would leave the City entirely. When Zevran was older, the pair made a several month journey to the North. The Master was looking for a specific plant and spent a fair amount of time teaching the boy how to recognize it in the hills around the outskirts of the Daelish Wood. When asked what he needed it for, the old man was somewhat reticent, saying nothing more than he was cataloging it for self-interest. The boy could not argue. The man had already started to show him how various herbs changed texture when rotten, telling him they had unique qualities in the brewing of beer and other elixirs. He thought it was interesting that plants still had use even after they were plucked from the ground and long passed their time at the dinner table.

The place was wrought with danger, however, which was all the more exciting to the small child. He had never seen such open spaces and tended to explore too far out of the old man's line of sight when they settled into various parishes for the evening. There were a number of occasions when the elder almost became violent, lecturing again and again not to wonder off.

The villages were strange compared to the City. Everyone knew everyone. Most were farmers tending goats along the outskirts of the desert in the drylands that bordered the northern woodlands. They were also quite superstitious and did not like the site of the Daedric child. Twice, the pair was refused lodging because of him. The rejection hurt, more because Zevran could not understand the distrust. He thought he did something wrong, but the old man grumpily rebuffed him.

"Nigh listen to such queer nonsense. This place is steeped in a different age."

He sniffed, "They hate me."

"Does it matter?" He inquired, "There is nigh anything you can do to change it."

"But, it's unfair."

"Of course it is, but you do the best you can with what you have," he leaned in from within his grey cloak to look straight into the boy's eyes, "which is a hell of a lot better than most."

They travelled the rest of the way on foot, all the way up until the very boundary of the forest. The old man sighed as he sat on a rock and peered into the dark expanse before him. The boy seemingly ignored, or failed to see, all of the foreboding that formed a pencil-thin line across their path. He was already on the other side, grazing the rocky hillside for this fabled plant his Master was after. After a while, he realized he was alone and turned back in confusion. The old man remained where he sat, sadly watching the younger at work.

"I nigh can enter here, I'm afraid," he said. "They will kill me on sight."

"Who?"

"The Daelish, boy! Do you listen?"

He looked around a bit alarmed at the idea of someone, or something, attempting to harm trespassers. On sight, no less.

The man exhaled, "I will set up camp here on the southern side. You will have to go into the woods and find the herb I need."

It was rather matter-of-fact, and Zevran turned back into the darkened woods with a little more caution than before. If something would attack the old man, what would stop it from attacking him? "How far should I go?"

"Be back by sundown," was his answer. The Master was already pulling out supplies from his bag and pointed to the sack on the boy's shoulder. "Come drop your things. You nigh need them there."

He did as instructed and hesitantly returned to the hillside. The tree canopy shrouded the sky above him, dimming his path, and the growth within was so dense, he could not possibly see anything on the other side. Keen to keep on task, Zevran searched the ground for mossy shoots that preferred grey boulders to the red ones. The space seemed eerily quiet around him. There were no birds or squirrels scampering about. A broad wind overhead was the sole sign the trees were alive at all, dropping a lonely leaf here and there. Occasionally, a crackling twig off in the distance would spook the boy, but every time he glanced up to the mythical monsters that laid in wait, he would see nothing but the evergreen thicket obscuring his view. The afternoon was a failure, and Zevran returned empty-handed for all his effort. The old man seemed relieved as he emerged around the corner though, rewarding him with a root stew he made from various bushes they pilfered on their excursion.

The following day, and then the ones after that, they trailed the edge of the forest. The Master was cautious not to tread too noisily or too close to the tree line, allowing his assistant to venture into the darkness instead. The novelty was beginning to wear off for the Daedric child, and Zevran wondered if the supposed danger was a scam to make him inspect at his surroundings more warily. Perhaps it was really bears the Master was fearful of. Or more of those farmers who threatened him with a pitchfork.

On the fourth day, he was getting bored. The leaf of this plant curled under itself and had delicate hair extending from it. The stalk was easily crushed if handled improperly, and he was to carefully pull the plant up with its roots intact, otherwise waste his endeavor. The gray boulders seeped special minerals, and specimens tended to find their home on the north sides of these stones where they might be warded from too much midday sun.

The boy kicked a small rock in frustration. These things did not exist, he decided.

Just then, he heard a rustle ahead of him. Stilling himself, Zevran looked into the direction his stray rock tumbled. There was the thin stalk of a tree and beside it stood a tall, narrow figure. He caught the dark eyes peer down at him with a sort of stern expression, and the child immediately backed up. The person stood well above him, a wide gate tracking forward, its gaze never leaving the now frightened boy as his pulse quickened and he turned to run.

"Master!" He called out frantically but fell to his knees as something hit him from behind.

Night fell and Zevran roused to the smell of something on the fire. He groaned softly as he pulled himself up subtly only to realize he could not move. Straining to view around in the darkness, he hoped that perhaps this was a dream and he would awake any moment to see the old man preparing supper. He was hungry and the forest was colder than it appeared at night. Mustering up the courage, he rolled himself into a ball and sat up.

Before him were two figures sitting by the fire chatting. At least he assumed they were chatting, as he had no idea what they were saying to one another. The boy noted a hare strewn across the flame on a low stick. His stomach grumbled.

The pair stopped their dialog and turned to him. Both held dark, large eyes atop long, slender faces. Zevran recognized the one he saw earlier and nearly swallowed his tongue. The fire cast a more ominous aura about them too, heightened by a series of thin lines running down the side of their cheeks. They both had long, dark hair tied back with leather chords. They were dressed differently as well, but not in the way past stories by the old man had impressed on the boy. If these were the "savages" his Master spoke of, they looked nothing like he imagined.

They stared at each other for a good few minutes. The one on the left muttered something to Zevran's captor on the right, resulting in a redirection of attention and a brief smile. The captor then leaned forward and spoke in a deep, male tone.

He blinked and gaped as the fellow said something he could not understand. The captor sat back up and pursed his thin lips. After a moment, he spoke again, this time in Antivan, "You are alone, child?"

Zevran snapped his mouth shut, his eyes widening. He wondered if he should say anything about the old man on the edge of the wood. The Master said he would be killed on sight if he entered. Shakily, he nodded.

The captor offered a smile, minor wrinkles flashing in the corner of his eyes. He picked at the hare over the fire to test its readiness, continuing his small talk, "What brings you to the edge of the Wood?"

The boy's stomach rumbled again as he focused on the rabbit. Roots and berries were well and good on the road, but it was a week since he had a proper meal.

The other said something short to his friend, and the captor nudged up to see how distracted the child was. He retorted back and removed the meat from the pit. Before Zevran realized it, he caught a shadow hindering his view and momentary panic swept him when he saw the knife come down onto his wrist. The older fellow held him down by the shoulder and cut his binds clean before making his way back to the other side.

The captor began slicing chunks away from the bone, tossing the boy a leg. He caught it, but the meat was still too hot and he waffled for a moment until he could tolerate taking a bite. This earned a chuckle and further murmuring from the pair on the other side of the fire.

They let him eat, glancing back and forth to each other in a casual conversation. Zevran strained to listen to the foreign words, a few sounding vaguely familiar. How had the captor known to speak Antivan? How many languages could he speak?

The meal finished, the questions were refreshed, "How old are you?"

"Ten… this summer."

"And you are alone?" He repeated.

"Yes," he lied.

"You are without supplies, wandering the Wood alone." The tone suggested the captor did not believe him, although he decided not to press further upon Zevran's affirmation, "Do you come from the village?"

"No," he blurted, but stopped himself before levying too much information. Searching for his thoughts in the dark, he glanced back across the fire, "My father is in the village. We're returning to Antiva City by Quintus Road."

"That is quite a long way," He nodded knowingly. "And where are you hailing from?"

"From Marnius near Tevinter," he answered. In a way, this was true. They did start their journey into the forest from the west after routing through several towns along the way. The Master desired to deliver a package to an old friend all the way across the Highlands and chose to use this trip as the best opportunity.

"And do you often wander away from your parents when they are nigh mindful?"

He gulped, "I was looking for something."

"Oh?" His curiosity was peeked, and the captor leaned into the flame. His cream complexion lit up in full view showcasing the delicate markings lining the length of his left cheek. To Zevran, his skin appeared almost grey in the forest where they first met, "And what are you looking for?"

"A root – a plant," he quickly corrected himself.

"And what use would your father have with this plant from the Wood?"

He had no answer. He did not fully understand why he was tracking the forest in the first place other than to satisfy the musings of an old man. He chewed on his lip straining for a reply, "He wants to sell it."

The captor studied the child, his visage cool and intimidating, although it was also strangely calming to the boy. Zevran was unsure what to make of the man's lack of response and worried that he may have been caught. After a moment, the captor leaned back to stoke the fire, returning his gaze in a more relaxed position, "Tell me about this plant. Perhaps we could help you find it, and then you can return to your father."

This seemed strangely fortuitous to the boy, who rattled off its description to his new friends. They chatted for some time into the night until he felt sleepy. He asked them all sorts of questions. Did they live in the forest? How many languages did they speak? What was on their faces? The innocence struck a chord with them, resounding in a hardy laugh and banter between the pair in their alien dialect. They were, in fact, Daelish. They lived with their families deep within the Wood and hunted near the boarder during this time of year. The markings were tattoos, religious symbols telling of their pasts and futures, who they were going to be, and when they would die. The captor's name was Talli and his hunting partner was called Nim. When the boy responded with his own name, renewed laughter barked into the night.

"Nigh is that even a Daedric name!" Talli teased.

"My mother's name was Arainai." Zevran pulled himself into a pout, "That's a Daedric name."

The captor stemmed his desire to goad, "Tell me, have you nigh truly heard of the Daelish before now?"

Zevran could not tell the complete truth or else expose his lie, "Only that you are an old people, and the Shem fear you."

They both chuckled grimly at the word "Shem."

After a moment, "And, child, do you know why the Shem fear us?"

"No."

"Hm." The conversation seemed to die after that. Talli recommended the youngster rest if he was to return to the village tomorrow in a happy state. The pair offered him a cover to keep warm; a thin but well woven cloth made of a soft, dark material. The fabric made him think of his mother all the more, wondering if she was really from Antiva at all. Perhaps the stories were just that, and the Master's fear was actually a ruse.

The next morning, Zevran awoke to a smoldering fire pit. The cloth was still wrapped around his tiny frame, but when he searched for its owner, the boy discovered he was completely alone. The angle of the sunlight overhead suggested it wasn't even midday yet, and he would have to get going if he was to attempt the journey back to the edge of the woodlands. He thought better than to take the blanket lent to him, and neatly left it folded on the rock he slept next to the night before.

The Master was wise enough to instill in the boy a good sense of direction, and after he positioned himself, he headed south again. The forest no longer seemed so menacing after spending a night within it. The wind was soothing and sort of reminded him of the constant hum he heard at the Chantry. He trailed the hillside down to a brook remembering then to follow the gradient back into the valley.

It was not long before he caught sight of his friends. Nim kept a position high on the slope of the hill, his direction to the south. Talli was focused on some growth below along the edge of the water. He could see more clearly in the daylight that both carried a longbow strapped to their chest and a large knife on their side. Their clothing was simple, yet had more craftsmanship than it appeared. Neither really wore tunics, rather their shirts merged into snug grey vests, the textile of which had a slight sheen that seemed otherworldly to the child. They had guards over their upper legs and well-fitted boots, and taken together they seemed to blende into the background of the forest. As wary as he was, Nim noticed Zevran approach with a flick of his pointed ear. He swiveled with the skill of a predator to survey the ravine.

"You are awake," Talli glanced over from his perusal of the pond and held up a leafy prize, "I think I found your plant."

Zevran lit up and clamored over to the older Daelish man's side. The leaf curled under itself just like he described and the slender roots poked from beneath the man's gloved hand. Gently, the boy retrieved it, only latently recalling how to wrap it in the handkerchief he knotted around his trouser belt.

"Thank you!" The boy chimed. His task was almost finished, "I must know how to repay you."

"Go home," Talli replied. His statement rang with a sense of finality, "Nigh wander away from your father and into the Wood again."

Zevran got the hint, but still gathered a childish grin as he looped the wrapped herb back into his belt. Hastily, he waved to them with promises to mind his parents better and began the long walk back to the valley.

"One more thing," Talli cautioned, his voice trailing after him along the creek, "Nigh eat this plant, no matter what anyone says to you."

Zevran paused, puzzled by such an odd suggestion. The old man surely had no reason to eat it, "Why?"

"It is poisonous," The Daelish warning was suddenly very serious. "It will kill you."

His smile left him, but the notion was just as quickly forgotten as he resumed his course home. Zevran closed his eyes and smiled at the idea that this ordeal was over. Looking ahead, he could see the forest edge in sight and each step was made with greater confidence. He had claimed his conquest and returned victorious. How the Master would be proud!

He tracked the tree line for another mile before catching sight of the old man. The grey cloak hung off him like a beggar, his scruffy beard and white curled hair was housed beneath a wide brimmed hat. Zevran could not hide his excitement as he called and waved out across the creek that separated them. His voice echoed over the valley, and the elder turned to face him with shock.

"Boy!" He called, some concern flitting his aged features as he paced the bank, "Where in Andraste have you been!"

"You nigh would believe it! I have the plant!" He pulled out his trophy as proof. The old man at first seemed overjoyed, but the reverie rapidly faded as he focused on something else on the hill beyond.

Zevran turned back and realized his mistake. Following him was the hunting pair, their lanky figures gripping the forest like saintly guardians. Nim already had his bow drawn, a needle-like arrow in his cross-hairs ready to strike. Talli stood to one side, his gaze penetrating the small boy with wordless apprehension. Or was it disappointment?

Suddenly, a shame filled Zevran the likes he had never felt before. He lied to these people and coerced them into helping him in the process. It may not have been his intent to deceive, as he thought he might protect his Master with the story, but they did not know that. With uncertainty, the boy began to back into the creek, sorrowful eyes pleading to the Daelish pair that they might leave the old man alone. In truth, this man was like a father. They did come to the Wood from the west. And he was charged to find the plant. Each step he took seemed to take for ages, the sentinels on the hill never stirring, and before he knew it, Zevran felt the dry rocky shoreline again beneath his feet.

"We need to make haste away from here." He felt the tug on his shoulder and silently obeyed. "Come!"

Just as briefly as he had seen them, the pair disappeared back into the brush. For days, however, the boy watched their path diligently all the way back to Antiva City, convinced they would return. Although he never saw them again, their presence haunted his memory for some years after.

The boy was concerned about the content of the Master's home after that. Were all the drawings in the tomes he marveled over representing florae just as menacing as the one he acquired in the Wood? The delicate leaves and soft roots he wrapped in cloth did not seem dangerous. When they returned to the City, he never saw the plant again. It simply disappeared, but the warning kept hampering at the child's mind. Suddenly, he was very cautious about his supper. The Daelish hunter said if he ate the plant, he would die.

One evening, as lessons came to a close and the Master was dosing over a book, Zevran plucked the courage to ask about the location of this herb to ease his own conscience.

"Why do you care?" The old man inquired with a sense of scrutiny.

The boy glanced over unsure, "Is it poisonous?"

The Master sat straight on his stool to stare down at Zevran. His beard contorted in some thought he was not willing to let go before slowly uttering his question, "And what would you do with this information if I told you the truth?"

He did not know how to reply. What was he supposed to do with such information?

His silence seemed to encourage the elder, "Plants have many purposes, boy. They are nigh just to eat or to refine into wine. For example, the Manuri Tribe in the heart of Qunari Lands uses a moss to treat deep wounds after battle. Without it, their warriors would succumb to exhaustion soon after."

He pulled at a book already open on his easel and turned the thick pages to a drawing of the moss he was describing. "This same plant, if ingested together with another benign herb, will inflict a flux upon the consumer such that if this person nigh seeks treatment quickly, he will likely die."

"Why would he eat it then?"

"He nigh would," The old man smirked, "Knowingly."

Zevran lacked experience to understand such sinister intonations. Instead, he turned back to the drawing with renewed curiosity, "Why does the moss do that?"

"That is a very astute question. Tomorrow, I will show you."

The next morning, the boy was pulled away from his normal chores and told to follow the old man into another small chamber beyond the front sitting area where the Master entertained his guests. Zevran felt both nervous and excited to have another room open to him in the villa. Drawing back a dark red curtain, the nook revealed itself. Dried plants hung on narrow strings above them, a small window to one side flushing the space with light. In the far corner stood a tidy desk, upon it a series of vials with handwritten labels.

He was ordered to touch nothing as the old man rummaged about in a cabinet to one side. In a moment, he retrieved himself and presented Zevran with a stone bowl, a pestle and a ginger root.

"I need this crushed. Finely."

The boy nearly dropped bowl it was so heavy and motioned over to the windowsill to regain balance. The root had long lost its character, and the shriveled husk started to flake off on his fingers as he lifted it up to the light.

"It is just ginger," the Master huffed. "Now, it needs to be crushed, boy."

Zevran did as told, although the job took more effort than he initially assumed. Once finished, he lugged the stonework back to the desk, now cleared and covered with a set of dried, thorny stalks from a plant he knew but could not place. The elder exchanged an expectant glare and pointed at the cuttings, "Now, I need the thorns removed. Keep the shoots though. We can use them later for supper."

Surprise flitted up to the old man snickering at his own joke. The boy peeked around the room again as he made his way back to the window, unsure if he really wanted to know what the purpose of the herbs above him were for. Carefully, he excised the thorns and placed them into another bowl and then set the stalks aside. Just as quickly as he finished, the old man reclaimed both parts of the plant to his desk.

Then the real work began. The master lit a candle within a large brass container lined with holes and set a flat, metal plate upon it. To Zevran, it looked like a simple incense lantern. A small pile of black powder to one side was mixed with water on the plate until it began to bubble. As the substance heated, the old man added a dollop of ginger powder, moments later pulling out a single thorn with a set of tweezers, gently squeezing it over the brown goo below until several drops fell. He promptly removed the plate from its heat source and poured the contents into a small stone flask.

"Come here," the old man motioned, filling the remainder of the flask with more water and swirling the mixture.

A pang of something ominous stirred in the boy's stomach. His attention was rapt the moment the old man lit the candle, noting every subtle movement he made from his position by the window. But, when summoned, Zevran suddenly did not want to be there any more. Against his better instincts, he emerged by the Master's side.

The elder turned to the boy, handing over the stone flask, "Drink this."

His hazel eyes just about doubling, Zevran looked down into the contents of the cup. The brown liquid churned, and he could smell the stale woody note. He gulped and jerked back up to the old man with a shake of his head.

He showed no emotion, but his words were deadly solemn, "You will drink this, or I will force you."

Tears welled up. The boy could not fathom what he could have done to work up such ire in the Master. All he wanted to know was if the plant from the Wood was as dangerous as the hunters made it out to be. He whimpered, "Please, no."

"You wish to know the truth of such things," he raised scruffy eyebrows, "and now you will."

He sincerely did not want to take the elixir. As the flask was raised to his lips, waterworks flowing down his high cheeks, the boy continued to stare utterly silent pleas to the old man. The taste was bitter and left a lingering sense of charcoal in the back of his throat. The boy backed away from the desk gagging on the granular remains, heaving from the knowledge over what he had just done.

"Go out into the garden," The old man pointed. He looked over nonchalantly as a knock came at the door. "I will come get you later."

Normally, the boy would be expected to answer, but he was grateful to not have that option. The man waited for the child to back out slowly into the hallway before making his own steps to greet his guest.

Zevran ran to his room, closing the door. Panic encased him with deep dread, wondering what he just consumed and what was going to happen to him. The Daelish warnings rang in his ears like Chantry bells as he dug under his pillow for the only family item he had. Clutching the gloves closely, he cried and huddled on his covers, each huff seemingly drawing more life out of him than the next breath carried. It was a mistake to ask such questions, he admonished to himself. He trusted too openly.

He was going to be sick, he could already feel the argument in his stomach. Sitting up, dizziness took over his senses, however, and the boy never made it to the door.

Groggily, he opened an eye. He was lying on his side in bed. Sweat dripped from his forehead and every muscle was tense and sore. Slowly nudging the covers off his torso, Zevran latently caught motion beyond him in a chair. The old man turned to him, closing the book he was reading.

"I told you to go to the garden earlier." The Master motioned to the floor, "You made such a mess instead."

All he could do was grunt his angst. He thought he was dying. Licking chapped lips, it took all of his energy to sit up. The old man was already by his side, offering a cup of water. Little eyes flicked open, and the child backed away as best he could into the corner.

"Boy, stop!" the Master scolded, pulling him over, "It is just water, and it is the best thing to take after consuming raften weed."

The weed? That was a common stalk Zevran pulled in the garden. It tended to grow in bunches during the spring, and the boy always had to be careful not to catch his hands or clothes on the thorns, else rip deep cuts into him that would later threaten with infection. Unsure, he took the mug with both hands and tested the contents.

The old man was not finished. He drew out a cube of some green substance from the table beside him. Quickly with a paring knife, he peeled a narrow sheet of skin from its surface and handed it to the boy with a demand, "Chew on this. It will help your stomach."

He mouthed the word 'no,' but it was immediately rebuffed.

"You will eat this or you get nothing!" The old man was stern this time, pushing the remedy at the child. He wanted to fight, but all the strength in him was fading and he had little choice than nibble on the herb shoved in front of him.

Satisfied, he sat back in his chair, saying as he went, "Raften weed is common enough. If consumed, it will cause much discomfort, but," he nodded to the boy for added effect, "I can assure you, it is nigh lethal."

"Why!" He could barely cough out the feeling of betrayal.

"Because, boy." The Master paused, wording carefully and earnestly, "You are to understand your poisons if you are to make them."

So the hunters were right. The herb must have been a poison. He shook himself from the corner, straining around to find some sort of hasty exit. But the old man continued, "You want to know why I had you search for this herb in the Wood, yes?"

"No." He changed his mind. He did not want to know. He wanted things as they were before.

"The Daelish have used Ma'an for, some say, thousands of years. Probably before the Shem ever even came here. It is a rare plant that only grows under boulders of lime and is used in special ceremonies, usually to commemorate the dead."

The story quieted him, but it was still not enough.

"It is deadly, but only if taken in copious amounts," the old man acknowledged, "For them, it is used to invoke visions that might serve to help them – consumed with care, of course."

"Why did you want it?" The boy muttered.

The old man breathed deeply, brows arching high on his wrinkled forehead, "I have a client who wanted it."

It dawned on Zevran then the real reason for all of the visitors. They came and went to either drop items off for the old man, or more commonly, to retrieve items cleverly hidden within their coats.

"He wanted a special elixir for a shaman far to the south," The Master snuffed a laugh, "To be honest, I nigh know if it will work."

The entire evening, the old man sat with the boy as he lay nearly doubled over in his bed. Three times he was given the green herb, the last time it was forced down him because he refused, convinced it was making the cramping worse. But, by the following day, as the boy emerged from his room still sore but feeling better, the old man stood in the hallway to greet him with his friend's maid in the kitchen. Zevran was given some time to rest until he felt well enough to resume his chores.

In the mean time, lessons continued as normal, but the Master began to lecture on an entirely different subject matter. The old man actually worked for a living. The guests he received daily were his clients. And they came to him for a variety of reasons. Many were fairly benign, local and regional men of importance in need of remedies for common and obscure ailments alike. Most common people would head directly to the Chantry to find their cure in some form of prayer or magical offering, but the old man seemed to look down upon such response as superstition that tended to do more harm than good.

"Nigh let me speak ill of the Chantry, for there are some exceptional clerics in their Order, but most of it is a load of horse shit used to ease the mind of the already dying."

"What about the Circle?" Zevran had only read of the mages, but it was enough to inquire.

He laughed, "The Circle nigh concerns themselves over such trifle nonsense."

Others who came to the Master were of a completely different sort. These were agents, the old man said, whose job was to keep order in Antiva. There were a number of guilds that worked for the Royal Houses that dotted the City; political empires built upon centuries of manipulation and bloody warfare. The battlefield was not in the form of garrisons and armies, however. Sabotage, like merchantry, took finesse. Subtlety. The ongoing feuds took place behind closed doors, in bedrooms, and around the open forums of the City. The job of their Guild was to keep those Houses in line should another major conflict break out.

"Our kingdom is at peace because of the Crows."

For these people, the old man made much more sinister concoctions. These elixirs did not all kill or maim, though. Many were fashioned to urge honesty from people and others to coerce. The range of uses for these herbs seemed as endless as the drawings of them in the archive to the boy.

"How do you know the potions work the way you want?" Zevran asked hesitantly.

"It should be obvious." The old man scoffed, "You study it. You try them – in their safe forms – and you work out their properties."

Often through trial and error. The old man went on to tell the boy about some of the mishaps he got himself into when he was younger. He collected books and cuttings to help guide him to make better, more refined substances. Over the years, he became the sort of expert, or Master as most would call him, because of his vast knowledge of the subject. Everyone came to him. And it became a form of obsession for the old man, as he desired to better understand the beautiful and deadly complexities nature had to offer.

Over the following months, Zevran would continue his daily routine. He had a new appreciation for the visitors as they came and went, like he was in on their little secret. Still, he was advised to keep quiet and was banished from the sitting area once he offered drinks. Except now, he would avidly listen in on the conversations without his Master's knowledge.

At least at first he did. Most of the banter was tedious and boring to the boy. They always started with a story about the Old City and the people they knew back then. The wealthier appearing visitors seemed to want to talk about their greatness to the old man, perhaps offering a reason why he should help them. If the coin was not persuasive, that is. Other, more discrete, visitors chose not to chat much at all. They came and went with simple conversation and with no coin to exchange.

One such quiet guest was Vinter. When Zevran first came to the old man, Vinter was one of the few who acknowledged him, always leaving with a quick wink on his way out the door. He was tall, slender and middle aged. He had shoulder length brunette hair, now starting to grey around the crown. He carried no beard and was well kept, wearing only dark shades of russet linen and leather.

One day, curiosity got the better of him, and Zevran asked as Vinter was escorted to the landing, "Are you a Crow?"

The Shem stopped and turned back to the boy. His smile was gone, but he did not seem angered, "That is an interesting question, why do you ask?"

Zevran shrugged, regretting his query. Red reached his cheeks, and when he did not continue to walk away, the boy felt pressed to answer, "Master says that Guild members sometimes come here."

"Oh? And if I were to tell you, what would you do with such information?"

The boy nudged up to the response, recalling a similar question from the old man. Giving a confused look, he mumbled, "What does that even mean?"

A passive smile returned to his scarred face, "It means that if you must ask such questions, you must have a reason to know such answers."

A full season passed before he saw Vinter again.

The old man seemed content to show Zevran more about the herbs than what was in the archive drawings. Each night was spent lecturing about the history of his stock, starting first with the entire contents of his cabinet. The boy was tasked with cleaning and organizing it, which required not only careful handling, but also knowledge of what he was handling so that he could properly put it away. The Master seemed to keep everything from jars of preserved lizards to century old mushrooms he said he collected from a healer in Tavinter thirty years prior. Some of the show-and-tell merged with history lessons of their own, outlining the damage the idea of some elixirs could impose on a person, or even a kingdom.

"The Third Dynasty of the Orlesian Empire fell to ruin by the utter mention of a poison. The thought of it consumed the Empress' very being such that she spent of her entire life in search of it."

Zevran turned back to the old man, "What was so special about it?"

He grinned, "Ah, it is a very rare substance, I can tell you! Gleaned from the fangs of wyverns."

"Dragons?" He had read about those kinds of creatures in the tomes. Giant, ancient beasts that roamed the mountains to the South.

"Nigh quite, but similar. They are smaller and wider in gate. And they have quite a ferocious bite, or so I hear."

"Have you ever seen a dragon?" The boy reached back into the cabinet for a jar he assumed contained something dead.

"A dragon? No." The old man scratched his beard, "But I have seen a griffin!"

Most of the lessons contained practical information for, at the very least, survival sake. It served no purpose to use an herb that might cause unintentional harm or other consequences. Either the poisonmaker, or floraesen as the Master called himself, understood what the herb did or not. Errors in this business meant bad things, which in most cases was the death of the floraesen himself, either by his hand or by his client's.

Zevran was made to remember common plants as well. While unusual herbs were at the heart of these brews, it was the common ones that held the potion together, so to speak. For example, ginger and charcoal were common bases because they masked the flavor of bitter ingredients. Rosewood and sandalwood produced lovely smells and could be confused for incense if burned. Ground up bone was tasteless and used to give texture to some mixtures or to create pastes for external application. Beer and wine, although fermented, could be used to help accelerate the effects of a potion because they also happened to cloud the mind when drunk in enough quantity.

The amount of a given herb was also critical. It was a waste of precious material to use it all in a single go. In most cases, less went a long way, especially if the intent was not to kill the subject. However, most clients did not know the difference, and so the Master would only make enough for a single use.

"But the vials are so big," Zevran picked up one of the flasks and peered at the contents inside. The bottle resembled a glass tube nearly the length of his hand.

"Do be careful! These are expensive." The old man gingerly retrieved the container and continued, "You may dilute the mixture with the same effect, as long as you use all of it, or leave the vial half empty."

The boy was eventually taught how to test the contents of some potions. Zevran recalled his last adventure with the powders and backed away from the desk.

"You nigh drink it." The old man stuck out his tongue and pointed, "You test a little and then spit it out."

The purpose of this exercise was two fold. First, it was to reassure the floraesen that the contents were in the right balance. It was like cooking to the Master: too much of one thing could ruin the entire dinner. Second, subtle textures and tastes sometimes could pinpoint the potency of the elixir and how much it may need to be diluted.

There was a third, indirect reason too, "If taken over a long enough time, you become slightly resistant to such things."

The final note seemed like good logic to the boy. Yet, it was the follow up comment that caught him off guard, "You never know when someone might attempt to try the game on you."

All summer, the boy cataloged, memorized, and crushed hundreds of items in the Master's back room. When he was sent out to the market to gather ingredients, it started to make more sense, and by proxy, Zevran became shrewd about the quality of the product he was ordered to purchase. Every day, odd cuttings would appear on the desk as well, delivered by the many discrete visitors at the door who would return some days later with an expectant smile and small talk. The stock never seemed to shrink despite the boy's tireless efforts, which at times was overwhelming. For every item he put away, something else would replace it on the desk.

But by late fall, the old man had a back room cleaned and filled with freshly powdered ingredients, organized and clearly marked by his little assistant. He offered a deep sigh and nod of approval one day as he walked in to inspect the space. This meant more to the boy than any praise before or since.

Not all toxic cuttings tasted bad, as Zevran found out on his own. Some were sweet, while others had no taste at all. And the effects were all varied. Most just made him feel ill, but some had other palpable side effects. There was one leaf the Master called 'carnassi' that made him feel dizzy when chewed on. He was amused at the slightest subject the old man brought up at lessons that evening and then slept far too late the next morning. There was another white powder noted only as 'si' in a book he found that spoke of its ability to heighten the senses. After dabbing a bit on his tongue, he decided he did not like the taste and spat it out. But that small amount was enough to keep the boy awake for three days. Afterward, he was careful to keep that powder far from reach.

Zevran was sure the old man knew he was messing around with the substances, but he chose not to say anything apart for one small cupboard in the far corner the boy cleaned out early that fall.

"Nigh, under any circumstances, try the contents of these vials," He warned. The old man said there was no need to experiment as the knowledge of them was handed down over the centuries. They were concentrated, for one, and secondly, they were all incredibly deadly. Tu'un, a Daelish poison for example, killed on contact and was commonly painted on their arrows. The Master managed to get his hands on some through a smuggler in Nevarra many years prior and mused that the thick black toxin was likely derived from a snake. Another snake venom, originating from the white Antivan Shal, slowly stopped the functions of the body over the course of days before finally taking the heart. There was an antidote to go with that one, but it must be delivered to the subject early to have any use.

The idea of an antidote was new to the boy, "Can you reverse the affects of most potions?"

"No," The old man sniffed, "But you can sometimes lessen them or speed in the recovery."

Winter was approaching and one day, the old man fell ill himself. A cough crept up that would not leave him for some weeks. Zevran grew worried, as this was the first time the elder showed any kind of weakness outside of the cane he always used. The boy was told to turn away all visitors at the door, and pacing the hallways, the days were far too long as his lessons were also temporarily paused until the Master felt better.

On a cool afternoon, the old man called for the boy from the back room. Earlier, a messenger came to the door and dropped off a parcel with a note attached, and Zevran delivered it without question. When he emerged, the elder was seated on his stool near the tidy desk and handed a vial to the boy.

"I need you take this to the address on the note. Treat it with discretion and nigh let anyone see you."

"What is it?" The innocence echoed in the small chamber.

"That is nigh your concern," the Master replied flatly. "Deliver it and return straight here."

What else was he to do? The boy at least saw it as a way to get out of the villa for a while. He was further instructed to find dinner on the way back with some coin in his pocket. He bound out of the building and into the street. The note neatly showed an address near the docks on the other side of the City. He had never been to the docks before. Perhaps this could be fun.

Master Naheeme's villa was tucked into a small neighborhood on the outskirts of the City. It had a market corner, two wells and an open forum all its own, which copied many districts that encircled the main city center. From the hillside steps, Zevran could see the Chantry towers in the distance just south of the grand Veshnee Palace. His address would to take him farther east near the water, where a cluster of plaster sat low among a backdrop of wooden masts and the blue sea.

The cobbled streets were narrow and interconnected like a spider web. Canals separated the districts with tall, arched bridges, and Zevran peered over the edge of one to watch a gondola heavy with its freight slowly glide beneath. He could hear the bells overhead as he approached the spires of the Chantry, and people engulfed the streets as the midday mass had just ended. Entourages of Shem women travelled together along the main thoroughfare; their flamboyant dresses billowed like flags held together by golden belts and bangles. Their hair was curled and weaved into intricate knots, and they laughed carelessly at their private banter. Merchants, clad in white save dark headdresses and beards, were already at their stalls for the start of evening trade. Spice wafted through the air.

The roads all had a slight gradient toward the sea and as the boy progressed on his path, he noticed the crispness of his surroundings change. The white washed buildings were tanning, the walls more worn. The streets were busy and crowded and the residents more swift about their business. Their clothing appeared to have amassed days of wear atop equally grimy faces, sweaty and salty from the afternoon activities. Loud calls erupted overhead and from the corners as various merchants waved for people to move aside. Moments later, a massive bull appeared bound by a harness to a cart behind it. The horns pointed downward at the boy, and in shock he narrowly skirted into an alleyway.

Zevran watched wide-eyed as the creature, its rider, and cargo passed. Then across the way into the connecting close, he caught a glimpse of something else that stopped him in his tracks. Two Daedric lads, a good several years older than him, were leaned up against the wall facing each other, chit chatting. They were thin, probably underfed, and tall with dark hair cropped at the tips of their pointed ears. For a moment, they sort of reminded him of the Daelish pair from the Wood, and the thought sent a pang of regret through him.

This sight would not seem so odd, except Zevran, in all his tiny years, had never really been around other Daedric folk. Not since he left the care of the Mothers had he played with others his age. He knew Daedric were in the outskirts of the City, but they were like faeries if he spotted them at all and only occasionally delivering messages to and from the villa and never other children. He stood agape, unable to move, continuing to stare until one of the pair caught sight of the boy.

The teen nudged up from his post and squinted across the alley. The expression was not a kind one and it managed to restart Zevran's legs for him. He ducked back onto the main road and scampered around a few tall women precariously balancing baskets on their heads. One of the Shem threw a verbal barb his way for bumping into them. Nervously, the boy looked back at the curtains of their skirts and maneuvered with more caution. Reminding himself of his errand, he looked for a shortcut through the mob.

To his right, he saw his chance as another road opened. Quickly, he stepped aside and noted a set of sails climbing up between the stone walls in the distance. So centered on getting to his address, he failed to see the foot that tripped him.

He landed hard on the damp stone path, cursing on his way down. He heard movement to his side and peering up, the boy met two pairs of dark azure eyes leaning over him. The pair he saw earlier simultaneously chuckled, glancing back to one another before looking down at the Daedric child again. From Zevran's perspective, they looked like brothers carrying a similar smile, fair complexion, and dirty linin to match. The one on the left, presumably the older, spoke first.

"Well you look out of place." The teen gave a sly grin, the edges of his white teeth coming into view, "Are you lost, my friend?"

These two were not his friends, and Zevran gulped as he retrieved himself and began to back up. Focusing behind the pair, he could see the throngs of people on the main road oblivious to the danger in the quiet passage beside them.

The teen on the right smirked, "Ah, he nigh answers. Suppose he's nigh Antivan, Fren?"

"I'm Antivan!" Zevran groused, snapping sharply back to the pair.

"Oh?" Fren perked up, taking a step toward him, "You nigh look Antivan."

What was that supposed to mean? Zevran pulled a face at the affront instinctively, but could come up with nothing witty to say. His lack of response allowed the others freedom to goad.

"Look at you!" The younger poked, "So tidy. So clean. Where did you get these clothes?"

"He looks like a golden child," Fren mused. "Golden hair, golden eyes. Perhaps you're made of gold!"

The last comment felt threatening as both took a step toward the boy. Something strong in his gut told him to flee, and Zevran did just that. Bolting in the opposite direction toward the masts, he refused to look back but could hear the clopping on the flagstone telling him he was indeed being chased. Sliding out of backstreet, he tumbled onto the flat boardwalk of the dock. Out of breath, he looked up as the pair appeared. They slowed their run to a smooth swagger, smug grins copied on their faces as they looked over the boy like he was some sort prize.

Instantly, Zevran was on his feet again and he dashed as fast as he could down the boardwalk. He needed to climb up onto something to get away. He needed to lose them. Several boatmen hollered as he weaved between the group pulling crates onto the dock. As the pair chasing the boy approached, one of the Shem foremen pulled the younger assailant aside roughly, kicking him out of the way.

Zevran ran into the open doors of a warehouse, hoping for cover. The dark space stank of brine and hay, and crates were stacked tall into the blackened ceiling above him.

"Oy!" Fren called from the doorway. Zevran jerked back from the shadow in sincere fear, "You chose a poor place to hide, my friend. You may as well come out."

Catching his breath, the boy looked for options to escape. The stone building was deep, but he feared moving would make too much noise. Carefully, he huddled into the darkest corner and watched as his aggressor passed. The teen seemed rather certain of himself; canvassing the interior like it was habit to walk onto someone else's property. He peered around the crates, opening one or two before he began to run out of patience.

"Come out, golden boy!" The teen hit one of the crates with the flat side of a stray wooden slat, sending a loud echoing boom throughout the warehouse that made the child lurch in his spot. After silence returned, he chewed his cheek and made a meek gesture; a way of changing tack, "We just want to talk."

A shadow appeared in the broad entry, covering Fren partly in darkness. A deep, gruff tone emanated from the other side.

"Drop the stick and come out."

Fren turned back and all the exuberance seemed to fade from his face replaced with a more sullen and defeated expression. Obeying, he turned toward the shadow.

"What are you doing?" Asked the voice. Zevran could hear the whimper of someone else with him, but dared not make a peep.

"Neh, having a look." Fren said, looking down and away toward the darkness where Zevran lay hidden. Slowly, the teen traced the length of the wall until he met the frightened visage of the boy. Some of his indignant air returned, but it was quickly stamped out by the authoritarian figure looming in the doorway.

The voice continued, "I tell you week after week nigh to come down here, and week after week, you and your kin return to cause trouble. Your House nigh keep you busy enough?"

"We do we want," His momentary belligerence he would later regret.

"Ah, well," Zevran could hear the sneer, "Let us see if your guild master feels the same."

Fren snapped up to the figure, "Wha – I'll nigh going with you, Shem!"

"You will come with me, or I see your brother pays for it." The shadow of the figure shook, and it struck Zevran who was with the man. The teen's sullenness returned and slowly, angrily he walked out of the building and out of sight.

Zevran sat stock still for many minutes to follow, long after he knew the three were gone. He could not understand what made the teens so angry or why they wanted to chase him. Or why they said he did not appear Antivan. That was the most unsettling part. From his corner, he could see the sun begin to fade in the doorway, and eventually the boy emerged onto the now empty dock.

He tugged out the parchment and tried to gage where he was. The address was somewhere up dip from his current spot, and so hesitantly, the boy crept up the closest road. He could hear the bustle of the evening market ahead, but could not see the road that would lead him back into the crowds. A thunder came from behind him, and before gifting the chance to inspect his imagined doomed, Zevran ran as though lightening were to suddenly strike at any moment. Finally ahead him, he caught sight of the gate with a bowl and three stars in bronze, and he knew he was in the right place.

Catching his breath again, the boy wiped sweat from his forehead and peered around the garden. The high walls and shrubs seemed to shelter the space from the noise of the market beyond. The front door was narrow and tall, cuddled into the corner of a small veranda.

Zevran knocked and waited. No one came and after a moment, he reached for the knocker again just as the door pulled open to reveal a wave of tanned linen and leather.

The boy perked up, "Vinter!"

The Shem stared down at the child, concern making the scar on his chin accentuate. He looked around before addressing him, "Where have you been? Are you alright?"

He nodded, slightly unsure and more so when the man pressed again.

He leaned down, and grabbed Zevran's hand, pulling it out to inspect it. In a hushed tone, he made eye contact, "Has someone hurt you?"

"No!" He protested and pulled away. Suddenly insecure, he wiped his hands on his cream tunic, only now realizing how dirty it was. He picked a stalk of hay from his shoulder before remembering his parcel. Carefully, he pulled out the vial and handed it to Vinter.

The Shem backed up into the shadow of the porch and pulled the boy with him. He sighed, "Come inside."

Vinter offered him water and bread whilst pulling out a cloth to have the boy clean up with. The space was smaller than the villa, but tidy and carried a homely aura. The Shem disappeared after taking the vial from the boy but quickly appeared back at the door.

"Come. I'll take you home."

They walked back mostly in silence, the evening stars rising on the ocean. Zevran, although still a bit spooked from his previous encounter, felt safe with the Shem. The Master gave the impression that he must be some sort of guild member, and the boy spent most of his time studying his friend as they went. Vinter carried a quiet casualness about him. He was slender, yet apparent that he did not suffer from hunger. He carried a knife on his backside, the carved handle slightly obscured by his dark leather vest. He wore fitted buckled knee-boots with a hidden guard on his upper right thigh. His stride was swift and straight, but it also showed a hint of a saunter not too dissimilar from the one Fren carried back in the warehouse.

The boy retrieved dinner as told, offering some to his friend with a decline. Vinter watched in silence as Zevran bargained for the better meat. It was clear the merchant knew this little one and greeted him with a fake jeer and a story about how the boy was really robbing him. He should get lost before a Shem calls the guard, he mused before handing the child a linen wrapped package with a wink.

"Go! Off with you, you rodent!"

The boy was hungry by the time they got home, and he raced to the entry with a massive sigh of relief.

"Vinter, you should see how Master is doing. I'm sure he would be pleased to see you!"

But as he turned around, Zevran realized he was alone again.

The Master did get better after some days, and the boy never told him about the mishap with the Daedric adolescents on the docks. The chores, the visits, and the lessons went on as normal and soon all was well again.

The months – and then years – passed quickly. Zevran grew like a wheat stalk, although he would never be quite as tall as the old man. His lithe form was now lanky from growth; his golden hair he was allowed to keep a little longer than his chin as long as he tied it back neatly. Hollow cheeks had not yet filled out and were paired with a bright smile. His piercing golden eyes caught the attention of more than one passerby on their weekly excursions, too. The old man told the boy not to be so brazen and look at Shem straight on, for it might catch them off guard. Then they might stop to ask questions and no one wants to break in the middle of their journey to talk over petty, meaningless things with someone they care little about.

Zevran had a wide-eyed tenacity that was usually followed up by innocent, if not also intrusive, questions about everything. It was no longer enough to have an answer if there was no reason attached to it. At times, the Master would even seem a bit impressed with the creativity in the teen's queries, although he would not always oblige them. The visitors no longer scared him either, and many regular clients Zevran knew by name and carried at least some minor rapport with. He was still charged with meeting their needs and then promptly exiting the room. However, after the Master finally caught on that he was listening to their private conversations, he was told to wait in the archive and read until called.

The old man was beginning to lose his sight, and eventually, Zevran was tasked with helping him put together some of the elixirs himself. This was quite a big day for him! After all, for years he could only sit back and watch and listen without ever getting to actually use the contents on the desk he always kept tidy. The old man would tell him to bring out the items he required and then occasionally quizzed him about how they would need to be prepared. His little assistant usually managed to answer correctly, although he was now at a loss about how to follow through on the instructions.

"It's simple," the Master spoke gruffly. Another cough had caught on in recent weeks. "Take the candle and light it and then place it in the lantern. It will provide just enough heat."

He remembered now. The brass fittings were heavy, but the concave lid popped over the lantern with a click. Zevran then prepared the three powders: charcoal, limpseed, and reenwax. The refined liquid would be a sedative laced in brandy. He dared not ask why. The Master never told him about client requests.

In the evenings, Zevran began to scribe for the old man as well. The Master was finishing a manuscript. It was meant to be a summation of his life's work, and the thick tome would be placed safely in the Chantry after he passed. The pages were originally written in Antivan, but with a late change of heart, the elder decided he would rather have it in Orlesian prose instead.

"Why change it now?" To do so meant the teen would have to scribe the entire thing over again, aside from the sketches.

He coughed and chuckled at the same time, "Because, boy. The Orelsian Chantry has more flavor for this sort of stuff. No, in Antiva, it would just sit in dust until Andraste resurrects herself!"

Zevran scoffed and turned back to the half-written page, "I would keep it for you. I'm sure I could do all sorts of things with it."

From behind him, the boy could not see the tired smile on the old man's face. With a nod, he said, "I'm sure you could."

Things were going well for the lad. He came to the old man little better than a pauper, and even he understood that, or at least felt as though, he was fortunate to grow up to learn a distinguished trade. The unspoken acceptance of this agreement allowed the pair to finish the thesis, in Orlesian as requested, and stock the Master's clientele long after the old man had gone completely blind.

Still, as the boy continued to pursue his Master's endeavors, he wondered what would be next for him. Evening lessons seemed to get shorter as time went on. It was not that the old man had nothing to say, rather that he was tired earlier in the evening and required a good night's rest in order to meet with visitors the next day. Instead, now that he was capable, Zevran was charged with preparing many of the requests of the day for him. A neat line of vials would await the elder the following morning.

Perhaps he could see himself become like the Master, the young lad mused. Perhaps this was what he was meant to do after he was plucked from a line of boys in a brothel at the heart of the City. He took pride with his chores, ignoring the eventuality that was to come. For, it was not until the death of the old floraesen, the Master, that his life would really begin.


	2. Part Two

Hi All! Here is Part 2 of 5. Happy Reading!

**Part Two**

The knocker sounded hollow on the door. The lad stood there anxiously, hoping for some movement on the other side. He studied the wood carving on the front painted panel just above his head. He wondered what the bronze bowl meant.

A moment passed before the door harshly opened, but only a crack. Part of the face of a woman appeared above him. Her stern expression tightened at the sight of the Daedric on the porch.

"Is Vinter here?" He asked.

She pursed her lips. The young man was just shorter than her, straight straw hair hung at his narrow shoulders. She would have assumed him some kind of colleague were it not for his clean appearance and a naivety that oozed from his sincere, gentle eyes. She peered up toward the gate before slamming the door closed.

"NO!" Zevran slapped the knocker, "Please answer! I need to see Vinter! Please!"

Biting his lip, he backed away. This was the first and only place he thought to go. The lad glanced around the small garden, wondering now what he should do. His waffling was abated though as the door unlocked again, this time revealing his request.

The middle-aged Shem faced out onto the veranda, and he could sense something was wrong. He demanded, "Why are you here?"

"Master," tears were already welling. "He nigh rouses. I've tried everything I know, but nothing works!"

Vinter's expression slowly hardened at the implied issue and after some silence, he directed toward the youngster again, "Stay here. I'll be out in a moment."

And after a moment, he returned. They hurried up the whitewashed cobbled steps from the docks to the Grand Mile to the quiet neighborhoods and canals lining the City. The midday heat burned this event into the boy's mind like a brand. He stood tentatively in the hallway as his friend went to check on the Master.

It was true. Master Philippe Naheeme – the great floraesen of Guidain House – had passed. Vinter entered the archive where the elder still sat leaning on his easel. Wisps of his white curled hair encased his face like a blanket. The writing feather was still firm in his grasp. He appeared asleep, but the visitor knew better. Subtly, he leaned over the old man to listen for a breath he knew had long left this plane.

Zevran went to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. The reality had not yet taken hold. Mortality seemed like only a cautionary tale unraveling from the many books he read rather than the ultimate truth that it was. He pulled at the delicate gloves beneath his pillow and played with the knotted cuffs while he waited. He was too young when his mother left to remind him that all things eventually expire. The memento was like a gift and that he might one day see her again, even if deep down he knew that to be a lie.

"Gather your things." Vinter spoke quietly and calmly to the boy from the doorway. He heard the finality in his statement and could see the way it struck him. Zevran pulled his knees close and began to cry. The Shem stood there for a moment, a conflicted expression crossing him as he found himself drawn to the teen's side like he would have his own child. He reached around the Daedric's shrouded shoulders, a consoling gesture to prod him into action, "He was old. But he lived a good life. A long life. This is all that any of us could ask for."

He put all of his belongings together in a small cloth sack. In it, he included the familial gloves, a clay mouse he used to play with the cat in the garden on summer evenings, several parcels of clothing, and two books. Before he left, Zevran also managed to sneak into the back room and take the copper lantern. Something inside him figured he should care for it in the old man's absence.

The events leading away from the Master's home seemed to pass all at once. The pair returned to the City, first stopping at a neighbor's and then the Chantry. Vinter approached the first Sister he encountered in hushed tones, quickly garnering an audience with someone far more important. Zevran was left in the Grand Hall to idly roam; yet instead, he felt content to just sit in a back pew and listen. The remnant echo of the morning mass hummed steadfastly on. It reached out and down the long court, out the open golden gates and into the streets beyond. With it was a message meant to bring comfort, though it he could not help how empty it made him feel in the moment.

_Draw your last breath, my friends_

_Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky._

_Rest at the Maker's right hand_

_And be forgiven._

_-Trials 1:16_

A firm hand grasped his shoulder and the boy twitched up to Vinter's voice, "Come. You can stay with me for a while until we figure out what to do with you."

Unbeknownst to Zevran, there was, in fact, much discussion about what should be done with him. Far more than he would have assumed for the simple fact that no one knew who he was. Despite being an active and constant figure in the eight and some years with the Master, the boy was considered little more than a servant. The elder left plenty of documents. He was to be burned and the ashes placed in the Chantry Vault alongside many other great Masters of his aptitude. His belongings and, specifically, the contents of his archive and backroom were to be moved to Val Royeaux and housed in Chateau de la Loire. The Guidain House already owned his property as well as the maid lent to him on occasion. Even the cat was re-gifted a home with his neighbor. Although she was old too, she could still catch a mouse.

Missing from this list of last wishes and requests was any mention of where his little assistant should go in his passing, let alone to whom he even belonged. Vinter felt compelled to clarify on the teen's behalf, since there was no one to claim him.

"What boy?" Before Vinter stood a man he once considered a colleague. Gynn de Payne, the Guild Master of all the Houses east of the Veshnee, leaned on an ornately padded bench looking out onto a sunny balcony. He was slightly older than his friend with a few added meals to match. He was pondering over a scroll whilst smoking a pipe, preoccupied about something rather far away from this visitor.

Vinter mused more to himself than anyone, "Well, by now, he's nearly a young man."

"The knife-ear?" Gynn nudged up before refocusing on matters, "What of him?"

"What will happen to him?"

He shrugged, "Perhaps he will become a Crow, if he has fortitude."

"You nigh can seriously consider throwing him to the Hounds." Vinter looked skeptical. Entry into the Guild was not the same kind of apprenticeship, "He would nigh survive it."

"So what! The problem will solve itself then, yes?"

This was not a satisfactory answer, and after a moment of silence, Gynn rolled up the scroll and pulled the pipe out of his mouth with a smirk, "You seem quite taken with him."

"I've spoken with him on several occasions over the years. He seems bright."

He was unimpressed, "And?"

"If trained properly, perhaps he can be of some use."

He heard enough. The Guild Master pulled himself up from the sunny perch and made his way to a broad wooden desk inside. The contents of this letter demanded a reply. He directed as he inked a quill, "Yes, and what use would I have for an untrained assassin? I could do better picking some random pike from the docks."

Vinter continued to lean on the bench, staring squarely into the back of his comrade's round shoulders, "You and I both know how much Master Naheeme longed for a pupil."

He paused as he tugged at some parchment before him, "Yes, and you and I know exactly what Master Naheeme thought of most people."

Although the response was rather negative, Vinter still had enough rapport with his old colleague to levy a favor. For old time sake. Zevran would be spared the Hounds, a pet term for the indoctrination of the young and unsullied recruits that were often brought into the fold at half his age. Their tutelage was a far bloodier sport.

In the mean time, Zevran was allowed to the stay out of sight in Vinter's home near Dockside. It was years since he last saw the place, after carelessly delivering a parcel and escorted back home. The interior was much like he remembered it, clean and small. The entry opened to a nook no bigger than the front porch with a stool to one side. Directly behind it was a table with four chairs and a hearth. To the right was a set of stairs and to the left, a storage room, yet half again the size of the ground floor, leading out to the side gate and cellar. Among the grain and peat fuel was where the boy could stay.

Vinter's wife was not pleased about the prospect of an unexpected guest. They had little room as it was, and she argued they did not have enough coin to feed an extra hand. The truth, as Zevran could see it, was that she was not fond of his kind. Her response to him mirrored that of many of the Master's clients, but he was disinclined to say anything then or now.

Instead he offered to help her, which to his surprise, was not well received either.

"Who do you think I am!" She exclaimed. Her delicate eyebrows arched as she pulled a disgruntled face, "Do I look like someone who takes from the hand of pikes?"

"Illa," Vinter warned lowly.

A long, resentful tisk escaped her as she turned toward her husband and hissed, "Get rid of him. He'll bring disease here."

Vinter and Illa had two children: a son named Raphael, age six, and a daughter named Lina, age fourteen. Illa spent much of her time with Raphael, running errands for her husband as well as other activities unknown to the guest. This left their daughter to mind the house while she was away. Zevran saw Lina as a godly creature. To be fair, she was the first girl he ever properly met, and to him she was painfully beautiful. She had long brown hair tied into a braid over one shoulder. Her hollow cheeks matched her mother, yet she was clearly gifted her father's broad smile. She had a loud voice that carried over the cacophony of her little brother's screams when she often picked on him, hiding his toys whenever he was distracted. Their mother seemed exhausted after breaking up their fights before heading out the door again.

Illa gave the lad explicit instructions not to ever talk to Lina, lest he would like to awaken with missing parts. The threat, although far from civil, relayed the message, and he stayed as far away from her as he could, considering the size of their enclosure. Still, he allowed himself to mind his business while also secretly watch her as she did her chores.

Although he might have been bound by physical coercion, Vinter's daughter paid no mind and was just as curious about the guest in return. After all, anything her mother hated was something obviously worth investigating. She would see how close she could sweep to him before he would look over uncomfortably, and with a meek smile, she would excuse herself before moving on to a different area. This was very confusing to the lad as he had little context of the game.

One day, Lina had enough of the silence and decided his bashfulness was not enough.

"Hi."

Zevran was cuddled into an alcove he cleaned beneath a skylight in the storeroom. In his boredom, he pulled out one of the small books from his pack and read in the late mornings after everyone left. He snapped up in surprise and shut the cover with one hand in effort to hide it.

The girl stood there over him, the edge of her blue embroidered skirt just brushing up against his knee, causing him to subconsciously retract further.

"What's that?" She asked innocently.

He did not know if he should answer, recalling the grave promise if he dared to disobey. The girl chose not to wait, however and leaned over, plucking the book right out of his lap.

"Oy!"

She halfhazardly flicked through the pages as she taunted him, "You can read?!"

By now he was standing, hand outstretched and a cross expression gracing him, "Give that back!"

"Or what?" She retorted, raising a fine brow.

There was nothing he could do, and Zevran just stood there, staring at her with hope that she would acquiesce anyway. Lina held the book between her petite palms and turned more fully to him. They were the same height, their matched silhouettes covering the wall beside them. She pursed her lips and looked him over, taking a step closer. He took an equal step back. Another step and he hit the plaster wall.

She closed the gap, studying his face as she approached. The sunlight peeking through the window above washed over him while casting her partly in shadow. Coyly, she twisted and said, "Do you think I'm pretty?"

He very badly wanted to fly up and out the skylight. His chest constricted as she leaned in further, her breath fluttering softly through her nose as she continued to observe him, "You have such lovely eyes."

Awkwardly, he smiled, his high cheeks blushing only a little. It was enough to get a haughty chuckle and grin from Lina.

"You do think I'm pretty!"

Just then, the front latch clicked and the door opened. Zevran thought his heart might burst as the girl steered back in panic and tossed the book at him. In a flash, she was out of the room and back near the hearth again just as Rafael announced his entrance.

Several days later, Vinter told Zevran to gather his things. They found him a home, it seemed. The lad had mixed emotions about such a prospect. In one way, he was happy to leave the confines of the small room with a rebellious girl and angry, distrustful mother. In another way, he was nervous this next place would reveal another angry Shem and her kin. They traced the narrow, crowded streets near Dockside and the merchant block. The low-lying buildings were held together in a long stucco line that all appeared the same from the street, although close passages revealed themselves from time to time. The rising heat from the summer morning mixed with a humdrum of sweaty people, dried meat, fresh fish, and herbs engulfing the air with feral odor the boy could not place but had a difficult time ignoring. On the Steps, above the bustle of the City, he could now appreciate how unsoiled and quiet it was.

Vinter was looking for something under the first story eves. Zevran paid little mind and followed as they hugged the edge of the walkway, careful to also observe his surroundings and anyone who might take to him in a menacing way. After the second block of buildings, it seemed his comrade found what he was looking for and stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door. No knockers or symbols adorned the façade, and the bright orange staining around the frame had long faded due to wear at about shoulder height.

The man knocked quickly and leaned on the worn portion of the thin doorframe, looking around nonchalantly as he did so. Something above them opened and then closed again, which was followed by muffled padding on the other side of the wall and then a loud thud just behind the door. The entry pulled back part way before a young man leaned out to greet the guests.

"Ser Vinter Ceralius of the Durn House, yes?" The young Shem was tall, taller than Vinter and lanky. He had dark cropped hair and clean features, if not a bit unkempt around his chin. He was chewing on something, the thin stalk of which hung from the side his mouth and waffled a little as he smiled cheekily. He prodded with some knowingness as he hung on the opposite side of the faded doorframe, "The Guild Master said you might stop by."

He grinned back at the youth with a nod, "Yes, I'm here to deliver your new convert."

"Oh?" He mocked surprise, "Alright, let me see him."

Vinter retrieved himself and turned halfway, motioning Zevran to come forward. Suddenly, the teen felt rather nervous presenting himself before this stranger. The man remained fixed on the entry, his head tilting to one side, the grassy straw precariously dipping out of his mouth. His half smile never faded, but the boy could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

The man glanced over to Vinter, "Is this it?"

"You are the best at what you do." The older Shem chuckled and gave the younger a slap on the shoulder in jest, "I'm sure you can figure it out, yes?"

That seemed enough for him. He pulled himself up off the frame and directed to the Daedric, "Well, come on then. I'll show you around."

Just like that, Zevran's life was traded and he never even knew. The elder began to head up the road before catching the youth jerk toward him with uncertainty. The teen swallowed hard, confused by what just happened, and the fear of abandonment began to creep over him. He looked into the open entry and then to his friend again.

The Shem stopped himself and posted a brief smile, realizing there was nothing he could say that would make this transition any easier. Instead, he offered one piece of advice knowing that he did the best could for the boy with what he had, "Think on your feet and you will be fine."

That was last time he saw Vinter.

Zevran hesitantly walked into the foyer of his new home. The tight hallway immediately released into a rather large open area. A hearth, complete with an oven, sat to one side of the front window. A long, wide table took up much of the room with a low fireplace on the other side. The man sat on the edge of the table with his feet propped up on a stool and watched the newcomer take in his surroundings. A sense of scrutiny tinted his words, "What's your name?"

He rolled the shoulder carrying the small, cloth pack, "Zevran."

"Yes, and how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"And have you ever killed someone before?"

He turned back to meet the young Shem square in the eyes, and shaking his head mutely earned a smile. The man rocked forward, rubbing in the mantra with a hardy laugh, "Welcome to the Crows! I promise, if you have nigh sent someone to Andraste by now, you will by tomorrow."

Zevran's expression lacked the same enthusiasm and the man clarified, gesturing around to emphasize the grandness of the establishment, "You are in the lovely House of Arnii. I am your housemaster, but _you_ may call me Taliesen. This is your home now, and if you do as you are told, you may just survive long enough to make it a comfortable one."

If he survived long enough. Even with the lighthearted zing the housemaster gave that sentence, the teen still felt a dreadful weight drop in his stomach. He had to wonder what he got himself into. Did Vinter send the boy here for lack of anywhere to go, or was this the Master's intent all along?

Taliesen gave Zevran a minor tour, first telling him the important areas, namely wear to wash, eat and shit. There were three floors to the House, plus an attic loft, which was mostly used to store dry goods for the winter.

"And the occasional dead body," He teased with a wink.

There were a few others in the House as well, although Taliesen noted that most were away on various 'errands.' Roughly thirty members resided there between the six rooms afforded to them. The housemaster pointed into a narrow corner room on the second floor and said, "You can stay here on the lower rung below Ren. He's poking around somewhere."

The lower rung amounted to an old sack stuffed with hay and molded into shape on the floor. Just above hung a cot between two beams parallel to the wall.

Taliesen gave a jovial nudge, almost pushing the distracted lad over in the process, "Eh, at least you nigh will be alone. I'm sure Ren will appreciate some company, yes?"

Zevran was told to settle his things and have a wonder around. He would be of no use to anyone if he could not manage to locate the loo in the evenings. Taliesen had things to do and would not be back for a couple of days. Until then, it was up to the young man to figure it out on his own.

It would be an understatement to say that the teen had a rather different concept of who and what the Crows represented. The Master always spoke rather highly of them and his interactions with Vinter, assuming he was one at all, showed himself to be a charismatic and thoughtful person. His home was clean and he had a family. This place was an opposite extreme; ages of dust and grime lined the hallway. His new room was littered with the discarded belongings of his presumed roommates. The kitchen, although clearly outfitted to keep up with a large demand, showed little signs of use. The only civil place in the House was the front living area with the low table and a spacious open forum out back surrounding a well.

The boy was overwhelmed when a thundering crash came through the front door the first evening of his stay. Tentatively, he leaned over the banister in effort to identify the loud hoots and laughter emanating from the front room. Six, no seven, Shem stood in a half circle as one of the broader fellows recounted the folly of his day.

"I swear upon Andraste's holy skirt, he looked at me with this, this fire burning in his eyes. He wanted me cold in the ground."

Another one of the group interjected, "You had to see him, though - he was four hands taller than _me_! Built like a ship, he was."

The broader Shem chuckled expressively and hunched over to imitate the brute he was describing, "He screamed something wild, I nigh know what, and just charged!" He stomped the floor a couple times, "We all just stood there and went, fuck! We have to get out of the way! So, Cregin here lunges to the side and grabs the rope, "he shifted to the edge of the table and grabbed the air as though he was yanking something. "At the very last second, we jumped back and let the trap in on him. The expression on that Qun's face…. He knew he was done!"

He was proud of himself, nodding and grinning as he finished the story. By now, Zevran was halfway down the stairs, peeking around the corner at them. There was a sense of camaraderie between the men as they stood there confiding their own encounters with such creatures. All of them were tall and of various builds. They all wore similar tucked tunics and vests that appeared sooty and muted given the dim light from the fire pit.

One of them looked over to the movement by the rail and perked up, "Oh? What's this?"

Caught, his instinct was to pull back into the stairwell and hope the man was referring to something else. But, Zevran was no coward and instead, he pushed himself down to the bottom landing.

There was pause in the room. The half circle all seemed a bit caught off guard, staring at the young Daedric lad like he was a out of place. To be fair, Zevran's appearance was out of place. He still wore the customary long cream tunic, slacks, belt and small vest from the villa. He was clean and well kept, despite leaving his old home weeks prior. To them, he looked like a pageboy who fell out of a royal house.

Cregin, the tallest of the men spoke first, a questioning glare flexing on his long jawline, "Well, you look lost. Who are you?"

He did not really know what to say. He felt lost. The teen was about to reply when another in the group, who suddenly recalled something earlier in the day, interrupted him.

"Ah, Taliesen said someone was coming," He gestured to the lad with a smile, "He said we should welcome him while he's away."

The room filled with dark snickers that made Zevran uncomfortable. Cregin crossed toward the teen, inspecting him as he went. He huffed with a condescending a smile and leaned over slightly to meet him eye to eye, "You look like a golden boy."

Laughter erupted. Zevran had absolutely no idea what he meant and cautiously peered around at the others.

The Shem stood straight again and called back, "Hey, where's Ren? You have a new friend!"

The group opened up as the others looked for their hidden comrade. Leaning on the far door that lead to the back forum stood a slight figure. His arms were crossed and he was cantered such that he faced the backside of the group. Jet cropped hair hung just above the pointed tips of his ears like a mop. His expression was not one of amusement, or even interest, but given the assertion made by Cregin, he hoisted himself off the beam and slowly sauntered toward them. The tall Shem offered the teen like a present as he approached and Zevran remained in his place, insecurity washing over him.

Ren was either Daedric or Daelish, Zevran could not tell which. Subtle telltale signs showed, however, that the latter was more likely. Cobalt eyes pinned the lad to the floor, his drab expression never changing as his focus remained on the newcomer. Fair, defined cheeks gave off a gray sheen in the firelight, emphasizing several deep scars that traced what used to be a line of vertical tattoos on the left side of his face.

His eye contact remained until he reached the stairwell. He stopped momentarily beside the lad before exhaling and heading upstairs. The response resulted in another round of laughter in the room.

The awkwardness of these encounters did not seem to abate in the coming days for the lad. Ren was not often around and when he was, he stayed to himself. Zevran tried to ask him a few questions, intrigued that he could be from the forest to the North, but was either ignored or given a sound phrase. A cautious warning, really: "Mind your business."

Zevran was relieved that he managed to keep the coin he earned over the years. Tucked carefully into the palms of his mother's gloves, he had nearly three Antivan gold saved in various forms of currency. This coin was what allowed him to eat since the group did not keep a garden and often chose the market over the hearth. He knew better than to flaunt this fact and kept the gloves hidden under the straw mat near the makeshift pillow made from his tunic each night. He also followed Ren's example by staying isolated and away from the others as long as he could. When upon re-entering the House, if anyone was in the ground floor lounge, they would still manage to pick at him with cryptic euphemisms he could not place. Their slang was almost like a dialect, one he was never exposed to in the outskirts of the City.

Instead, Zevran took the time to familiarize himself with the surroundings of his new home. He was on the far southern side of the docks, near a district dubbed the 'Tern." Tern was a colloquial word that referred to a temporary traveller or refugee and was where all of the sailors lived with their families. Temporary was probably not the correct description for the place since most of the sailors' descendants lived in the area for generations. The district had a very different feel from the rest of the docks, however. The residents were mostly foreign, carrying accents Zevran imagined were from the South. Ironically, they looked to him less suspiciously than the merchants on the other side of the block and he felt relatively safe walking the streets there.

The northern side of the docks was where Vinter lived, although Zevran dared not go near the place after he made such effort to be rid of him. He felt a little bitter, though he could not say why. The main thoroughfare in this area lead directly to the Grand Mile, a series of steps that connected Dockside to the main merchant quarter, Veshnee Palace, and the Chantry. From the base of the steps, he could see the tips of the spires, the echo of the bells every noon and evening heralded onto the City below like herders calling their flock.

The lad was especially interested in the ships. He read long ago that it was not the Daelish way to sail on water. He wondered if any of the sailors were Daedric, though he never ran into one on his personal tours. Most Daedric he saw were either porters or messengers, transferring various things from the boats into narrow passages lining the Grand Mile. They paid him no notice, too busy in their affairs.

One afternoon, after returning from the boardwalk, Zevran discovered his bag was missing. Frantically, he searched the corners of the room, feelings of violation encasing him. A sharp shock of panic then hit and he rushed back over to the mat, tossing it aside. Then he went downstairs.

"Give it back!" He demanded. For the first time, his anger was showing through as the lad planted himself at the bottom landing and faced two of the bunch that greeted him the first night.

Velnas and Borne, as he heard them called, were relaxing against the wall with their feet pitched on the table. They simultaneously looked to him and cracked smiles.

"Oh, look!" Velnas chirped, his stubbly smirk breaking further into a toothy grin, "He thinks he's good enough to talk to us now!"

Borne, a smaller fellow, but no less broad than his friend, snorted with a shrug, "I wonder what the golden boy wants."

"Give it back, I know you have it!"

They feigned innocence, their hands going up in the air. One of the Shem managed to continue the charade with a straight face, "I nigh know what you are on about. Did you come here with something?"

Red reached his cheeks and Zevran felt the base of his skull burning. He wanted to tear them out of their chairs and take the smirks right off their faces. But, he wondered what exactly he could do. He had no weapons, and he certainly would not last in a fight. Borne leaned forward and propped his muscled elbows on the table, cupping his chin atop a palm and waited for the lad to answer in a meaningful way. Zevran looked to the floor for a long moment before getting a different idea. He backed away up the stairs again.

He could hear the laughter below him, but it did not matter. He would find what they took even if he destroyed what they had in the process. He located the last room to his left on the first floor and began knocking items off a chest he saw while investigating about the house one day.

It was not long before the pair was in the doorway and shouting about the intrusion. The chest was locked, so Zevran took a sheathed short sword he found in one corner and began beating the box with it. A strong arm picked him up and tossed him to the other side of the room, and in a flash he was up and out the door, back down the stairs with Borne screaming slurs after him.

The lad rounded the corner for the front entry slamming headlong into a figure. Disoriented, he felt a hand yank him up by the scalp.

"Come here, you little runt!" Borne shook him hard to get his attention.

The teen swerved around with his hands out trying to claw at the brute's face, screaming all the while, "Give it back!"

The Shem gave a swift punch to the chest that just about took all life out of the boy and threw him to the ground. Zevran lurched out a buried cough trying to get his breath back as thick boots approached him.

"Stop."

Borne, ready to reach within the bowels of his soul to teach this newcomer a lesson he would not soon forget, turned to the sound. His student remained hunched over on the floor and listened as best he could to Teliesen's voice.

"By Andraste, is there nigh a better way to do this? Take him out back or something?"

"The knife-ear thinks he can pry into people's shit!" He said coolly.

Zevran jerked up and spat, "It's nigh yours! Give it back!"

Taliesen glanced between the pair, observing how overwhelmed the lad was. He turned to Borne, "What was he after?"

"He took my bag!" Zevran interjected as he tried to get some balance. Rubbing the back of his head, he was beginning to feel sore already.

"Ack, it's all talk." The Shem made a frown and gestured to the boy, "He's clearly rabid."

"Rabid?" He looked up to the standing pair, renewed anger overcoming him. Rabid was something said of street dogs or rats when they got into the grain. It was not something said of people, Shem or no. Somehow, Zevran managed to straighten himself, immediately going after the larger man with hands outstretched.

Taliesen's lean frame blocked his path, and he casually pulled at the young Daedric as Borne chuckled and backed toward the staircase. Above them, Velnas pondered, "Is he really going to get back up?"

"Is this true, did you take his things?" The housemaster inquired to the pair more seriously. Neither answered, instead keeping their amused gaze on the frenzied teen. Taliesen put a calm hand on Zevran shoulder and issued a command, "Go outside and wait."

The lad stopped his seething long enough to look up at the housemaster. It seemed this was a battle he was quickly losing, as the pleased expressions of the other pair only heightened the more composure he regained. A sense of defeat came over him and slowly he left the room for the back forum.

He sat against a shaded wall for some time. This was a terrible place, he decided. He thought of the veranda he would loaf around on back at the villa when he finished his chores. If there were no visitors, he could sometimes sit out there the entire afternoon watching the City below him. He wondered what it was like in the docks as he observed the ships come to and fro every day. He studied the maps of the inlets they sailed, noting how intricate the coastline was. He thought of Vinter, and suddenly, the anger returned. He felt tricked by what he saw in the Shem. He believed a lie.

He heard the footsteps, but did not bother to look over. Zevran rested his chin on his knees. His slacks were starting to turn a burnt tan from the dust wearing into them. His straight hair was still mussed from the earlier fight and he could feel the bruising on his side where he hit the wall.

A bag dropped to one side with a metallic clank. The lad looked up to Taliesen above him. He was cantered against the wall, peering down to him expectantly. Mutely, Zevran pulled at the white linin pack, and after searching quickly over the contents, closed it again. His heart felt like it was going to break, "It's nigh here."

His eyes narrowed, "What's missing."

"There were gloves," he half muttered in disbelief resting back against the wall.

Taliesen raised his eyebrows and sighed, "Well, if they're nigh in there, then they're gone, I'm afraid."

All he could do is shake his head, feeling tears well up against his wishes. He could hear the housemaster shuffle a bit before sliding down the wall to sit next to him, inquiring as he went, "Did you leave coin with it? You should nigh leave coin with such personal things."

Where else was he supposed to keep such things? He tried to retain his composure, not wanting to further embarrass himself in front of these people. Biting his lower lip, he studied the brick outline of the well.

Taliesen seemed unfazed. He tried to console the newcomer as best he could, "Well, they are just gloves. You can get another pair."

"They were my mother's," he blurted before catching a sniff. Quickly, he wiped away a stray tear.

That effectively ended the conversation. The pair sat there in silence for many minutes, Taliesen unsure what to say and Zevran grappling with the newfound loss. The house was becoming lively again as someone just returned from a long away errand, and the housemaster nudged the teen into a more productive direction, "It will be fine. Come inside."

He stayed where he was and halfway to the door, Taliesen turned around and prodded again, "It will just make it worse if you run and hide. Take your lickings now, my friend, and it will work out better for you in the end, I promise."

This Shem was not his friend, but his advice was grounded in experience with this place. Slowly, the Daedric retrieved himself with the linin bag in toe and walked to the door.

"Head high," the Shem chided with a smile. "You nigh want them to think you're moping, yes?"

Things were a bit quieter for several weeks. Borne and Velnas tended to work together, so when they were given an errand somewhere north of the City, Zevran breathed a sigh of relief. Still, he was much more cautious about where he kept his belongings. Carefully inspecting the copper lantern, he made sure there were no dents in the delicate filigree. Together with his favored of the two books, he found a spot deep in the attic within an old crate. The other book was kept hidden beneath the floorboards in the middle of his mat. He would bring it out late in the evenings by the fire when he knew no one was around, or when he really wanted to be alone, he would crawl into the attic and use stolen candles in the lantern as light.

Without the gloves, Zevran had no money. Taliesen already caught on, however, and decided to make quick use of the skills he assumed Zevran possessed, namely that of a messenger. Most days, there was a pile of sealed letters that needed to be delivered by sunrise at the Vancor, a stately building on the western side of the Merchant district. All the letters and their accompanied seals were the same and sometimes stacked in the dozens. He was also chartered with finding good grain and other daily supplies the House needed. Taliesen stopped short at asking the lad to cook, unsure of how it would affect his already low status with the others, and instead used some extra income to hire a maid once a week from another House in Tern. She was from Rivaine and could readily take out an eye if anyone risked look at her the wrong way.

Tasked with purchasing items was nothing new to Zevran. He purchased everything for the Master, and by the end, had a ready list of all the things a functioning household required. The merchant block in the docks was crude, yet diverse, in the things he could find. He quickly discovered that the neighboring building was a leather shop, which explained the pungent odor of steaming vinegar that pervaded the block. Two of the stalled merchants were from Nevarra, probably related to many of the sailors in Tern. They sold an array of meats and herbs that Zevran had never personally seen before, but he recognized a few from the tomes he memorized in the archive. He gained a relationship with them, though the merchants did not speak Antivan well. So, they exchanged words and the Daedric offered to correct their pronunciation for a better price. To his surprise, this scheme was welcomed, and the two Nevarrans became visibly excited whenever they saw him.

Inevitably, Zevran ended up with more coin than he was given and a dilemma hit him. The young man was paid meal and board for all of the deliveries he made for the House, so Taliesen said. So, the lad pondered if he should give the money back to the House after everything they took from him. The housemaster did not seem to know the difference with respect to the allowance he was given. He simply assumed the money was spent in its entirety. This was strange to Zevran. Antivans were renowned accountants.

But he was also taught that it was wrong to so blatantly steal for no real reason and figured it would likely come back to haunt him later. Thus, he left the stack of coin on the table in Taliesen's private room next to the letters to be delivered the next morning.

One day, Zevran went to pull out his book only to discover an empty space in the floorboards. He sat there with a mix expression of anger and sincere hatred for this place he found himself in and everyone who resided there. Slyly climbing into the loft, he checked the crate with a sigh. This room was too cumbersome for anyone to bother getting into.

As he walked downstairs, he heard someone call his name from the nearest room on the first floor. He stopped, wondering if it was a ruse.

"Zevran, I know you're there." Taliesen's voice came flatly through the wall, "Come here, I want to talk to you."

He opened the door facing the housemaster's back. He was writing a letter and turned momentarily before motioning to a placemat next to him. Obeying, Zevran sat down in front of his book.

Taliesen never looked at him while he wrote. He was very careful about how he scribed, "Curious thing, perhaps you can help me."

He stared at the leather binding and wondered how the Shem knew. He thought he was careful.

"What use would a knife-ear have with a book?" He chewed on a well-worn stub of the feather he was holding and studied the Daedric, "I mean, do you nigh find that odd?"

Zevran shrugged. He was not about to tell him of all the years wasted on his studies. The books were part of a series of stories he loved to read about the surrounding lands. The one on the table was a composite fable incorporating all the legends of the Free Marches. The book in the attic was a topical history of the Daelish.

Taliesen mused, "You can read?"

He finally made eye contact. Taliesen had sky-blue eyes that appeared almost gray from the light seeping through the window slats. His expression was of genuine curiosity. He found something unusual. Slowly, Zevran nodded.

He sat straight and quirked his head inquisitively. Snatching the book, he opened to a random page without looking and returned it to the lad, "Read this passage to me."

Zevran took the open page and reviewed the top line. Blinking a few times, his heart pounding, he looked up, "Would you like me to recite in Orlesian or translate to Antivan?"

His eyes widened and he shook his head, "Where did you come from?"

Somewhat instinctively though, he thought the response a trick, and so Taliesen handed him the letter instead, "Here, read this then. I know what it says."

He plucked the parchment from the Shem's hand and recited the top line, "To the respected Viscount Bernardo Vanechal, it is with my humble regret to inform you of the loss of-"

"Alright, that's enough," Taliesen jerked the letter back. Now suddenly unsure, he asked more seriously, "Where did you learn this trade? Are you from some House Lord?"

An accountant? Hardly. Zevran could surely only tell stories of the mere foyers he was allowed to enter, or sometimes just the steps, if the merchant's family forbade visitors outside the Master. He cleared his throat, "I was just a servant."

It was clear the Shem did not believe him, but Taliesen let it drop anyway, "Nigh are you to deliver letters anymore."

The subtle accusation did not sit well with the younger. He argued, "I nigh read them!"

He tisked, "I never said you did. This is just nigh your job anymore, understand?"

Zevran was handed back the book and from then on, both copies were placed deep within the hidden crate. Without the deliveries, he was bored again. Occasionally, he tried to follow Ren around, just to see where he wondered off to during the day. That did not last long after one incident where the sullen Daelish figure trapped him in an alley and gave a discrete threat of a dagger to his side, reissuing the sensible advice he gave upon the teen's first arrival. He was still tasked with gathering supplies, so he spent a lot of time down by the stalls, chatting with the two Nevarran merchants. He asked them about where they got their herbs and what kind of mead they made. Once he brought back several gifted bottles and thought to present it to the House. It was not that he felt obliged, rather that Zevran wanted to test if using something sweet worked better than all together avoidance with the salty band of brothers.

Interestingly, the group did not know what to make of the offer. Here before them stood a now scrawny young Daedric man pushing forward a foreign brew with a cleverish smile. Borne was convinced something was up; especially after the rare reprimand he received from Taliesen.

Zevran pretended this was a merchant back on the Steps and mustered a feline grin, "Surely we could get to know each other on better terms, yes?"

Taliesen uncorked the bottle and sniffed the contents, "You said this is from the Nevarrans?"

"You sure they nigh pissed in it?" Cregin disparaged. It was no secret that he did not like Nevarrans of any kind. Never mind their spices or women, both of which he would crawl over himself to get to.

"You should try it first then, my friend," Velnas poked before picking up a small pewter cup, "Hell, I nigh scared. Bring it here, knife-ear."

"Nevarrans are known for their mead," Taliesen nodded in approval and slid over a cup.

There was one in the group who knew better. Cerelus, a small spindly man who came from the far west, immediately peeked interest and grabbed the second bottle, "Heh, this is the equal to the Barachal Vineyard."

"Would that be the north vineyard or the south vineyard?" Borne smirked blandly.

He looked up and sneered, "You nigh have any sense to know."

Zevran would not admit it to them, but he never drank mead before. It was far sweeter than he predicted, which was echoed on roughly half the other faces in the room. Except for Cerelus, of course, who took in the drink like it was some fine brandy. Antivan wines were dry and weak by comparison, which was fine by them.

"An acquired taste, I can assure you!" Cerelus exclaimed, offering to take the other bottle with permission.

As the summer came to a close, Zevran was nudged awake early one morning. He was kicked really, but not hard enough to hurt him. Disgruntled, he rolled over to the sound of Taliesen's voice, "Get up."

Wondering what the problem was, the Daedric rubbed groggy eyes and sat up on his mat. Above him, the housemaster stood with a fixed shoulder-width gate, his long form leaning lightly on a stick, his normal tunic and vest replaced with more sufficient padding. He smiled and asked, "You ever pick up a sword, Zevran?"

Still halfway asleep, he shook his head.

"Good!" He cried. "Today is your lucky day! Get dressed and meet me out back."

He threw on his pillow-shirt and grabbed a corner of a bread loaf before heading out the side gate as instructed. The sun was bright and the entire forum was empty aside from the housemaster casually swinging the stick about. To his surprise, Zevran noted Ren seated on the other side in the only shaded part of the patio, concentrating on sharpening the tip of several arrowheads.

"I figured it would better if it was just the two of us to start," Taliesen chewed on his favorite grass and grinned like he was about to play. He surveyed his subject before changing his mind, "No. That's nigh right. You need to change."

Zevran turned to him questioningly, "Into what?"

Taliesen nodded to the other side of the forum, "Hey, Ren. Let me use your shirt."

Ren ceased his metalwork and sent an icy glare. The stone he was using to sharpen the arrow was a blade all its own, and given the expression, Zevran figured the Daelish man wanted to throw it at him.

"No," He interjected, removing the dusty warn tunic and turning back to Taliesen with a nod, "I'm fine."

The Shem paused with raised eyebrows before acquiescing. He walked over to the edge of the patio and grabbed a stick the same length as his. Tossing it, the Daedric student caught the reed with ease, and after some observation, he mimicked the side-stance of his partner.

Taliesen gave a shrewd smile, "You know, that is one of the things I truly love about all the different kinds of knife-ears. I have yet to meet one who nigh has impeccable reflexes."

To prove his point, the Shem lunged headlong at his opponent. It was all Zevran could do to move to the side before being shoved to the ground. The man straightened himself to finish the thought, "Follow through, you are nigh for it though."

The youth righted himself and again mimicked his partner. The housemaster waffled side to side, examining his position. With the stick, he gave a thwack just under the student's right shoulder blade, which reactively pulled his arm down. A poke in the stomach and he stood straight. Taliesen brought the tip of the stick to his chin, in effort to straighten his line of the sight.

"There you go," he teased, wheedling the straw between his teeth. "Much better. Let us try that again, yes?"

Zevran was confused. He was charged and just moved aside. But, the Shem did come at him again and again shoved him to the ground. Three more times to be exact. Taliesen held out a hand on the last failure and prodded with a question, "If you move aside, what are the options?"

He side-glanced toward Ren, who continued to ignore them. Breathing deeply, he hazarded a guess, "Back away."

"You could do that. What else?" He prompted for a more obvious answer, "Which side was I facing when I came at you?"

"Away."

"Yes! And what was exposed to you?"

"Your back."

"Ah!" Taliesen was excited in a similar way the old man was when Zevran managed to stumble upon something interesting to talk about, "And do you think facing your back to an opponent is a smart thing to do?"

He shrugged but conceded that it was probably not a good idea. His instructor smiled again and suggested, "Let us try it again."

For the rest of the day, Zevran found himself in the dirt. A proper tunic, or even just a vest, would have helped ward off the sun and the blows from the stick, but the lad did his best to hide any pain he felt so to avoid being taunted later. By the time he noticed the others line the edge of the forum under shaded eves, Taliesen was convinced his lesson for the day was done. He pulled the student from the ground and offered some praise for handling the first day of his new tutelage well, considering his utter lack of experience, of course.

The bruising. The poor lad had never been so sore in his life than he was over the following weeks. Taliesen's manner of instruction was to keep tapping him until he stood straight and to have the young man come to his own conclusion about what was the best maneuver by repeatedly putting him in the dirt. After each failure, he would give a tisk, make some sort of remark and merrily poke at him until he got back up. He did not really want to learn to fight, but Zevran did not see another option either. He could imagine worse things that could happen to him if he did not begin to pick up whatever skill the Shem was trying to instill.

Taliesen had a philosophy. To him, the best kind of sword fight was one of improvisation. Zevran had little context as to what that meant and stared blankly as the housemaster would go on about the style of stances one could take for a given situation. Ultimately, he would show how every one of those positions would fail if the opponent was astute enough, often using the lad as a prop. To his logic, an unplanned approach worked better at catching someone off guard.

"Antivan swordsmen are trained in specific styles of fighting," He sniffed morosely. "And they call them by all these fancy names that nigh mean nothing if you end up dead on the other end of the blade."

To think on his feet was the primary piece of advice Taliesen could offer and it reflected in everything he did. For the first time, the lad was allowed to follow the housemaster around on innocuous errands, and Zevran took the opportunity to more closely observe how the Shem carried himself. Much like Vinter, Taliesen projected a confident swagger, with an added showiness that probably related to his youth. He was older than Zevran by a good measure, but was certainly not middle-aged. A slight accent clipped his words, and it dawned on him that the Shem might not be Antivan at all, which would make a lot of sense since he seemed to have little appreciation for any form of negotiation at the various markets they visited. He assumed others would give a fair price, which indeed may have been the case, but the man also had a lack of concern for the cost of things in general, which would be a poor trait for anyone born in the City, Shem or no.

"How long have you lived here?" The lad asked cautiously on the return to the docks one afternoon. Taliesen took him to a tailor he knew to outfit the teen with more appropriate gear. The offer of generosity was really a loan, and it was understood Zevran was expected to pay it back at some point in the future. The elder Shem knew Taliesen on sight and was, surprisingly, not off put by the Daedric, instead inquiring casually about which hand he used more often. He was measured and told to return in a couple of days for the product. Half of the payment was due up front. Upon hearing the price, the lad could not help but scoff, offering a lighthearted quip that he was paying for silk. Both Shem looked at him in shock; killing the banter and any good will he may have had with the old man.

Taliesen glanced back without stopping, "Nigh ten, maybe eleven years. I was your age when I landed Dockside."

"Where are you from?"

He hesitated, but answered anyway, "Ferelden."

Ferelden? That was certainly a long way to the South. The only people he met that far south came from across the strait in Kirkwall and were all living as porters in Tern. Some of the Master's almanacs had the northernmost coast outlined from Denerim to Val Royeaux, all expressly written as an eastern extension of the Orlesian Empire. Apparently, this changed after a recent rebellion that left half the kingdom in ruin. The Master once said nothing charged a noble man to die more than offering him freedom.

Fall progressed into a cool, breezy winter, and one day Zevran finally did something right. He landed the point of the stick into the rib cage of his opponent after summarily tripping him. Taliesen peered up from the floor and grinned widely, "Good! You finally get it!"

Too bad there was no one else around to see it. But, that did not stop the young man from taking a bit of pleasure at winning something for once. A sly smile crossed him and Zevran felt compelled to see if he could do something similar again. The housemaster was keen to squash such ideas though, and quickly the lad was put back in the dirt.

The other housemates seemed to be growing accustomed to the newcomer's presence, and the Daedric noted fewer barbs thrown at him whenever he encountered one of the Salty Brood in the hallway. Velnas still held a bit of a chip, but then he always had a sardonic retort handy whenever the opportunity struck. Zevran was left to his own devices for the most part, though his sparse routine was enough to occupy him. He was becoming rather fluent in Navarran.

One evening, he entered the foyer of the House and realized the place was full of people. He was tasked to deliver a pair of boots to a cobbler on the far side of Tern and did not return until near dusk. The door hung open into a thick void of smoke, and cheery banter echoed into the street. Apparently, everyone was home.

Zevran nudged one of the Salty Brood upon sliding into the front room, careful not to distract anyone from their attention on the low table before them. Taliesen sat center on a stool against the wall with a broad smile, still chewing on his grass straw, and after a bit, he held up his hands to pacify the crowd.

"What's going on?" The lad asked.

Cerelus gave a side-glanced and grinned, "Eh, you are in for fun tonight, my friend."

He held off from questioning further as the housemaster pulled out a red cloth bag and placed it on the table. The deeply colored cushioned fabric was something Zevran had not seen before. The edge of the sack was covered in golden crocheted detail attached to thick silken cables. The object landed with a collective set of soft clicks that seemed to excite the group more.

Cerelus chuckled and noted to the newcomer, "Vantenii. He's passing out the jobs."

"We have had an excellent season, would you nigh say?" Taliesen ventured to his comrades, rather proud of the contents in the bag. He patted the crushed fabric and continued, "The Guild Master must be impressed – he increased our lot by half more. You all will be busy, yes?"

There was laughter among the group as well as an eruption of hushed conversations between working pairs about what sort of things they would be called for. With another flash of his teeth, the housemaster pulled the cord and tugged out a wooden chip tied to a leather string. He focused onto something written on the flat oval object and then called out a name.

"Baan."

A thin Shem stepped forward and collected the trinket, immediately pulling back before another name was called. Zevran observed a satisfied expression come over the man's face as he looked at it before carefully tucking the wooden chip into his vest.

"Daeryn."

"You know, not all houses are like this," Cerelus mused. He was one of the oldest in the group, probably even older than Vinter. Such young leadership did not upset him, however, whistling that he would never wish such torture upon anyone he cared about. He partially turned to Zevran to explain more clearly, "Most housemasters will just give you a job and tell you to get on with it, but Taliesen figures such ways are boring. He thinks it keeps us sharp by deciding in the group on random."

"He decides who will run the errand upon pulling those things from the bag?"

"No," the Shem shook his head knowingly. "He knows who he will give the Vantenii to. I think he does it this way so nigh anyone can say he plays favorites."

Names continued to be called and some of the group collected their tokens before disappearing into the back forum or up to the darkened hallways above. Cerelus was eventually called and pulled back a gift of his own. Silently, he scanned it over and then handed it to the newcomer. Zevran eyed the small object with a sense of wonder. He had never seen anything so intricately carved before. On the wooden panel was a picture of a river and a box. The detailing of the box showed what he guessed was a deer pinned with an arrow. Above the illustration was a tiny set of marks he could not understand, and when he flipped the wooden coin, the blackened coiled outline of the Antivan Shaal came into view.

"That is the crest of the Vancor," Cerelus noted. "They are the ones who make these."

"What does the drawing mean?" Zevran inquired, flipping the token back over.

The Crow tugged on the leather cord, pulling the prize out of the younger's hand with a chortle, "That is nigh your concern."

Taliesen sat straight against the wall, the bag now significantly lighter, and called out to the remaining group, "Hold nigh! The courtesans can wait!"

There was a momentary pause as the twenty some men ceased their banter and leaned back into the room. The hush was tense to Zevran as he interpreted their response as though they were all being kept from something more important. The housemaster adjusted his fitted brown vest and happily gestured to the corner of the room near the door, "We have a newcomer, fresh from the fields!"

The entire room turned to the face him, and Zevran felt uncertainty flush his cheeks. He no longer looked like some royal servant who got lost on the City streets, but that was little consolation to the notion that he was not one of them. A far cry, he was scrawny and short, and seemingly still far cleaner in appearance than the weeks or months worth of travel some of them exposed in return. Taliesen was not thrown by such a reaction and even seemed to brighten his pitch as he addressed the lad directly.

"Do you know what binds the House of Arnii, Zevran? It is what makes us different from any other House east of the Veshnee."

He obviously did not know what to say, and all he could muster was a shake of his head. A couple sniggers escaped near the fire.

He leaned forward like he was about to tell a secret, "We are nigh the Hounds."

Several shouts burst from the foyer causing Zevran to turn. Shaggy smiles began to crop up around the room, although it was lost on him.

"This boy comes from a house lord, I am convinced!" Taliesen pointed at the Daedric, now quite alarmed, and a more surly expression crossed him as he referenced to the group, "They dropped him here like he was scrap for the porter yard!"

This statement did not make the Shem happy as they seethed barbs into the space. The housemaster rallied on, "I mean, he must have pissed someone right off to end up down here, yes?"

"No!" The lad nearly shouted, his heart sinking into the floor, "He just died, is all!"

Taliesen paused, his hand still outstretched at the newcomer in mid-gesture with his sermon, and pursed his lips. "Did you kill him?"

"No!" Zevran's eyes widened.

Silence permeated the room as the housemaster continued to stare. After a moment, he dropped his hand with a dismissive remark, "Ah, it nigh matters. You are here!" Suddenly his vigor renewed, he turned back to the gruff room, "And you all know what that means!"

Zevran looked around for Cerelus or any of the other Salty Brood for guidance. Velnas and Borne were parked on either side of the fire pit, cheeky laugher splashed on their faces. Ren was absent. Cregin stood by the door, but was fixated on the housemaster as he lifted himself from his stool and crossed the room with a healthy strut.

"We do things our way, and that brotherhood is what binds the House of Arnii. One day, you will better understand such things, I promise," He leaned down slightly to see Zevran at eye level, his long palm resting calmly on his shoulder. The fire behind him dimmed his blue eyes, but the spark of sincerity within them could not be ignored. He stood up sharply and turned to the Shem with added fervor, "But! For now, we have to welcome you – it is only the Crow custom, would you nigh say?"

He nodded around to the others as they roared their approval in unison. Zevran's gut told him something was afoot. The relaxed palm clasping his shoulder tightened and suddenly, the lad found himself away from the wall and much closer the fire. It felt as though hands were all over his shirt as the linen stretched above his torso and he was quickly yanked toward the light, his right arm pulled from his side such that he could feel the heat from the pit. Triumphant catcalls echoed in the background in the dialect he had yet to learn, chanting old rhymes between friends.

The housemaster knelt down below the stonework and eyed the young Daedric. His smile was still pleasant, but his words were very serious, "You should stay still, my friend."

Zevran glared back apprehensively before a sharp, searing pain met the right side of his back. He screamed in shock first and then in agony, but the plea was drowned out by another round of calls and laughter from all around him. The branding iron remained in place for what seemed like minutes to the poor lad, the fire melting into him like it would fall out the other side of his chest. The pressure eventually lifted though and with it was any energy he may have possessed as he gasped and felt the darkness take him.

He awoke sprawled on his mat. Somewhat carelessly placed there, the group only briefly thought to lean him on left side over his right. Only his slacks remained on him too, and the sunbeams on his feet suggested that it was near midday. Slowly, Zevran sat up and looked around the small space. He was alone. He felt alone. The backside of his shoulder throbbed, and the thought brought back memories that forced a chill to cut through him. He dared not touch it. The wound needed to be covered.

Closing his eyes, he wished he were back on the Steps. In the kitchen, he was shown how to use a special salve in case he touched the shelf near the bread stove or the cookery without proper tools. Cuts that threatened with infection were often treated with rinet, a common moss mixed with fine silt and bone meal. The Master said the moss lived off the soil mixture and kept the cut sealed. If treated early, no mark was left behind.

He strained to think of another alternative. It was unlikely he would find such an herb in Dockside or Tern. The Chantry was out of the question; in his mind, he could hear the old man's stern lecture stretch from beyond the grave.

At first, he was concerned about his new injury. But then, as the day wore on he became angry. There was no warning. No explanation. If this was their way of welcoming him, he was done for it. Zevran tore off a piece of worn cloth from his old tunic and soaked it in some water from the well. The coolness made the burn ache with the briefest of relief before the heat resurfaced again. Gently feeling around with the cloth, he could tell it was circular and about the size of his palm, the raised rim just circling his shoulder blade.

Careful to conceal his misery, the lad braved the street with caution. As bustling the house was the previous evening, it seemed everyone was gone. He had no coin to spare, but that did not deter him from finding a merchant who might be willing to indulge a favor.

Izeek and Nabul, the pair of Nevarran brothers, originated from the Silent Plains near Solas and ran the two stalls that Zevran often dealt with. Their father's brother's cousins left the family some time before and migrated south to Cumberland. Three generations of sailors were since dispatched upon Thedas and made homes from Tallo all the way down to Denerim. The nomadic nature of their lives seemed at odds with the way they described the Nevarran kingdom, however. The brothers described lush valleys to the Daedric, the stonewalled city, and the ancient Cathes Bridge that separated the harsh drylands to the north from the wetlands to the south. They told of the rich varieties of nuts and grain, much of which was imported into Antiva among other places. It was this reason there were so many Nevarrans in Tern to begin with. Those who came with the shipments simply never left.

Ultimately, it was a drought and tribal warfare fed by the Tevinter Imperium that drove their families to seek better land. Izeek would wax about the old songs his sister sung in the desert when he was small. Nabul, the older of the pair, waved off such sentiment dismissively, suggesting that all things happen for a reason.

As usual, they were excited to see Zevran. The lad guessed they were this way with everyone, but took the warm greeting kindly.

"Come! Come, come!" Izeek exclaimed, offering a spot in the shade behind his stall. The two shops faced opposite each other and sold a variety of different things that arrived on the shipments each month. Throughout the day, the pair would amuse themselves by heckling the occasional passerby. It was slow at the moment, and the younger, at least, was bored. Offering some wine, the Shem chimed, "Tell us a story! Too long since we see you, brother."

He could tell them a story. He could tell them how he longed to sail from this place, but then where would he go? He rightly bit his tongue and sighed, "Perhaps another time. I have a request, if you're nigh so troubled."

"For you, anything." The statement was so full of conviction that the Daedric stumbled on his words.

"I'm looking for a herb," He began hesitantly. The brothers carried many, many spices. Most of them Zevran never heard of before, but he started purchasing small parcels at the request of the weekly maid. She said it softened the meats when she prepared them to be cured, and the brothers knew her so they often had exactly what she wanted. He continued, "It's nigh to eat, rather I need something that I could use on a burn."

"Honey." Nabul called from his side of the stall.

Zevran made a face, but was stopped short of responding as Izeek waded in on the problem, "How bad is this burn?"

"Fairly bad."

"Honey." Nabul called again.

He was not in the mood, "What is he on about?"

Izeek smiled. He had a dark complexion with a round face partially hidden by the hooded white robe Antivan merchants customarily wore. He pointed at a bottle of mead to his side, "Honey cures many things. It is divine."

In all his years reading about random roots and plants from the marshes of Nahashin to the Daelish Wood, he never encountered a book that discussed, nor did the Master ever lecture about, the many supposed uses of honey. Sure, it was used to mask the taste in some elixirs the old man made, but it was never a main ingredient in anything he touched. Scrutiny surfaced as the lad squinted and replied with a flat tone, "Divinity will nigh help if you succumb to fatigue."

"Honey." His friend rephrased as best he could in the minced Antivan that he knew, "My uncle once horribly burned retrieving hamar from plains one summer. The sun was too great. My mother covered him in honey. Wrapped him. Prayed for him. In one week, he was cured."

"All true," the elder brother crowed. He stood up from his bench and walked over to the pair in the shade, a woven fan fluttering in his hand. From within his robe, he retrieved a small brown jar and dropped it on the table casually, "You use pollen mixed with honey." He rubbed his fingers together with his description, "Thicker that way. Cover the wound and add more every two days. In one week, change the dressing and again until healed. Will work. I promise."

Zevran was skeptical, but could not explain why. Their willingness to help him seemed gracious, but then again, he thought things were going better at the House too. His choices were to let the injury fester and hope for the best, try to find rinet or something else from his past he knew would work, or trust the generosity of these foreigners. Tentatively, the lad took the jar and nodded his thanks.

Then it dawned on him, "If I know of an herb, can you find it for me?"

They both smiled and bobbed their heads happily, "Of course! Nevarrans can get anything."

That evening, he carefully stripped apart his makeshift pillow into a series of small bandages and washed them with well water. Zevran had to admit he expected something different when he opened the brown jar and was just a tad disappointed to find a thick mixture with a sweet odor greet him. He took a narrow twig from the back forum and winnowed one end to spread a thin layer onto the cloth square. Just as he was about to place it on the burn, he heard a voice from the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

He stilled himself and peered up from his spot. Ren stood halfway into the room and regarded his roommate warily. They looked at each other for a moment before Zevran, his irritation finally getting the chance to lash out at someone, muttered a curse and flippant reply, "What of it?"

Ren seemed not to really care as he waltzed to his space beside the Daedric and dug into a small locked cupboard fitted into the wall above his cot. On any other evening, Zevran would be interested in what the Daelish man was up to, careful to discretely observe him without drawing any attention. Ren was very private and avoided most of the Salty Brood all together unless called upon by Taliesen. He worked alone and would be gone for long stretches of time before resurfacing. Zevran imagined he must be exhausted from such travel because his roommate would sleep for several days before resuming his routine. They never spoke, and Ren never offered any advice other than for the younger to keep his nose where it belonged.

Tonight, Zevran deliberately chose not to care in return. He tried too hard and it gained him nothing but contempt from someone he did nothing to. The dressing oddly felt comforting, but he was worried the bandage would slip if not secured. Carefully, he wrapped the cloth square with another piece of his old tunic and sat back with a wince.

A small bag dropped to his side. He looked up into the shadow above to see Ren's bland gaze returned.

"It will help with the pain," was all he said before lying down.

A bit caught off guard, the lad did not know what to do. He pulled the parcel toward him and searched its contents.

"Carnassi?" Zevran jerked back up in disbelief.

"It's called du'in." Ren's response was sharp. He sat up again and hissed, "You chew on it. Now, leave me be."

Zevran knew what the herb was, although the name Ren called it was novel. The dried, musky leaves were one of the first he got to experiment with back at the villa. The effects were relatively harmless, making Zevran drowsy more than anything. Not one to take a gift lightly though, he took a couple leaves for later, and tried to find a comfortable position to sleep.

The Nevarrans were right. Within several days, the pain in his shoulder was gone except when he touched it, or more likely, when Taliesen took a stick to it. That part of his back became a favored target in their daily spars. The Shem would chuckle a little when the lad buckled, giving a tisk and telling him to move faster in his usual jovial way.

"Let me see it," The housemaster demanded. "I want to know how it's healing."

Zevran glared at him and ignored the request to fill a cup with water instead. That did not suit the Shem as he marched over and grabbed the younger's upper arm to peer into his shirt. He eyes lit up and gave an impressed huff before letting the Daedric squirm out his grip, "Oh, are you trying mend it?"

"So!" He spat back, shocked at such invasion of his space. He rolled his shoulder uncomfortably, "What if I am!"

Taliesen grinned and laughed, picking up his discarded stick before turning back to the student, "Careful, if it heals too well, we might just have to do it again."

Zevran tightened his jaw and sent the coldest stare could muster, which only earned another guffaw.

"One day, you will wear it with pride, trust me," the housemaster said, pointing the end of his stick in Zevran's direction as he retreated into the center of the forum. Swinging the wood coolly, he wondered, "We should mark it, no?"

Mark it? Zevran frowned and contemplated throwing away his losses for the day.

"I'm sure Ren would oblige," He continued. "With a proper bribe, of course."

He scoffed in defeat, "He nigh speaks to me, what makes you think he would do anything I ask?"

"He's alright." Taliesen quirked his chin and nodded, "You nigh ask him the right questions, is all. You should have seen the look on his face when we attempted welcome him! Oh! Took two tries and a good amount of brandy!"

He stopped his pouting long enough to catch the final sentence, "You all are burned."

"Of course," he said it like it was obvious and normal. Taliesen dropped the wooden blade and pulled up his shirt to make his point. On his upper right shoulder was embossed with a darkened disk divided into quarters, each compartment of which extended a left-facing furl from the rim. He careened his head back to describe it better, "This is the House of Arnii. You are now one us, my friend."

He did not ask to be one of them, and Zevran did not like the way such wonton inclusion made him feel. But the results were rather permanent. Taliesen caught on to the dissatisfied grimace and thought to send a more candid reminder of the Daedric's reality, "You should nigh fuss so. Things could be way worse. We could have sent you back, and then where would you go? To the Hounds? Ha!"

"What are the Hounds?"

He scrunched his face like he smelt something bad, "The Hounds are where you go when you have nigh have a place to go. Mark me, they breed assassins that you neh should cross, but they're bastards in leather, they are."

Part of Zevran wanted to inquire further simply to better understand, but the other half of him felt bitter at the a description of a Guild his Master had such glowing fondness for.

Taliesen was not in the mood to explain anyway. He referenced back at the lad, "It nigh matters anymore. You are here and it is my task to train you to actually do something useful, yes?"

If he was going to stay, he was going to have to earn his keep. That was the Arnii way. Zevran imagined that must be the way it was in all Houses, but wondered what exactly he was going to be tasked with. His daily errands remained the same for the moment, but the sword matches against the tall Shem began to increase in intensity and duration. He was only occasionally, finally, getting an upper hand before he was again reminded of his place. The rest of the winter passed rather painfully.

As promised, the burn did heal quickly, although a sunken mark would always remain. The housemaster's curiosity was peeked at how he managed to mend it so effectively, noting the others' tendency to scar from infection. Zevran carefully chose to be tight lipped in his response, simply quoting a Chantry line about how cleanliness was divine in the eyes of the Maker.

A blessing, the evenings remained quiet for the young man. Housemates would come and go throughout the day, often lounging in the downstairs sitting area or sleeping on their makeshift mats. Once the sun set, however, the house emptied. Zevran briefly wondered where they all went to, but stamped down his inquisitiveness in place of the certainty that he could be alone. This was his time to reflect on whatever he wanted, which lately was any memory he could conjure of the manuscripts he read or scribed for the Master.

One particular evening, Taliesen leaned into the doorway to observe the Daedric lad scribbling onto some parchment over his mat.

"I do hope that's nigh my ink and paper." A broad grin displayed on the housemaster's long face paired with a chuckle once he caught the astonished expression, "It is quite expensive."

Zevran was so lost in his thought that he did not hear anyone coming and hastily moved the parchment behind him, embarrassed. Biting his lip, he tried to think of a way to explain his theft, but he was cut off by the Shem's demand.

"It nigh matters; you can owe me for what is used later. Come."

"Come where?" He asked.

He was about to retreat down the hall when he veered back at the hint of refusal in Zevran's tone. Willing the play a bit, he coolly questioned, "You ever wonder where we go at night?"

"No," Zevran purposefully lied as he forced his lips in a straight line, which only emphasized his youthful stubborn façade.

Taliesen snorted, "Yes you do and even if you nigh care, you are coming with me. Up."

Apparently, he had no choice. He tidied his space, the ink, quill and paper in the floorboard below, threw on a shirt he washed earlier and let dry on the windowsill, and met his cohort at the lower landing. The walk was brisk and it was the first time the lad had ever really ventured out of the house at night. The streets were empty by comparison during the day, but he could hear activity all around him. The buildings were lit within and he watched as residents took to supper or sat in private conversations. They traced the main thoroughfare for about a block before turning down a side street. The tavern on the corner flushed the alley with lantern light, loud banter and music resonating as they passed. Taliesen gave a passive wave on their way into the darkness again, motioning toward another less well-lit building beyond.

They reached a wide, arched door lined with a frieze the Daedric could not make out in the shadow. It was then that the Shem stopped just before tugging the oak handle. Turning to the youth, he chose now to dispense some critical knowledge, "There is a saying with the Antivan Crows, Zevran. Long ago, when the merchant princes began having their way with the City, the Guild decided that the best practice was to keep their skills, their trade, within. They decreed that all theirs sons," he paused to motion between the two of them, "our brethren, would carry on the march as their legacy. And their daughters…" Taliesen looked at the door more shrewdly before continuing, "They would be our mothers."

He recited the line as though he memorized it from a holy book, "Forever their sons wrought crows, their daughters courtesans."

And the door opened. A scent of roseleaf welcomed them as their eyes adjusted to the light. Ushered into an enclosed foyer, the lad could hear soft music on the other side of another door before him. Taliesen was already a bit distracted by whatever the tune was about and with a smile offered the handle to the newcomer. With some hesitance Zevran pushed open the entry, opening into a much larger space lined with a long bench around the outer wall covered with plush, ornately adorned pillows. There was a second balcony above them, although he could not see the stairs that led to it. Two doors to the right and one door to the left remained closed and the center of the room was filled with several square tables yet also decorated with soft padding beneath them. The Daedric nudged to his right to see a fair woman playing the lute. She looked up from her knelt position and smiled sweetly.

A hum below the music and easy conversations also pervaded the place in a way that was not lost on him; the tenor felt calming. Like the Chantry.

The housemaster was already gone from his side and made his way to a spot designated for him. Vulnerable and exposed by the door, the lad felt he had few options other than to follow, choosing to quietly, tentatively sit beside him near the rear of the space. The men around him looked familiar, but they were not the same Salty Brood he was accustomed to. In the dense smoky incense, he caught Velnas in another corner. His stinging satire seemed subdued by the attention of the young, beautiful woman near him. Her smile reached ear to ear in response to something he said, and Zevran could not imagine it was anything like what he normally heard from the Shem's mouth.

"Who's this?"

He felt fingers brush his neckline and jerked back in near panic. A bushel of curled brunette locks framed a delicate heart-shaped face. Her full lips contorted into a bemused smirk as she sat back. Taliesen popped an olive in his mouth and rested his chin on her shoulder before answering, "This is Zevran. He's a new convert."

The term seemed to have meaning to the woman. She raised an eyebrow and mustered an apologetic smile, "A convert? Oh, he just looks like a boy."

The housemaster nuzzled her neck a little and chuckled as he said it, "That is because he is one."

The woman turned back gracefully to look Taliesen in the eyes. She did not appear angered or even flustered by the statement, rather nonverbally confirmed the innuendo directly. She sighed through her smile and sat up from her pillow, "Rue, please have Sinette come."

Meekly, she turned back to her admirer and said, "I believe I have your solution."

"You always do," he replied, slipping an item into her palm and kissing her cheek lovingly.

Zevran's heart was pounding and he could feel sweat beading on his brow. He innately understood what this place was and what just transpired. But he would be a fool to say he was prepared for such a thing. Back on the Steps, there were rules about conduct around others, especially women. The only female he ever associated with was the maid lent to the Master on occasion, an elderly Shem in her own right. Otherwise, he was only allowed to view them from afar. As whimsical as they were, women seemed so foreign to him. Only once did he ever see a Daedric woman following after a governess from Orlais. She was like a tiny replica of the Shem in front of her, attentive with all focus on her charge. But these sightings were rare and always outside the villa, as women never made uncalled visits to the Master.

On their weekly outings, the old man expressly forbade him from looking directly at women. The one and only time he did caused a stir that nearly resulted in his arrest. It was by accident. He was waiting for the Master outside a client's home in the merchant quarter when he unintentionally caught a young lady's attention walking with her father. Zevran was nearly fifteen at the time and when she stopped to speak to him, he instantly broke into a charismatic smile, never turning away. Her father and escort, oblivious to the fact he lost his companion, turned to see the unorthodox pair having a flirtatious conversation in the middle of the street. The lad was unabashed in his innocence to the social faux pa he just committed, more relishing in the attention from a pretty girl. But before the Master, who was emerging on the front steps, could even interject, the patriarch was at the Daedric's side with slurs and calls for an apology. Indeed, for nearly two weeks after, Zevran received enough verbal reprimand that he never dared have the Master stopped in the street again.

A curtain of silk came into a view. The dress was embellished with fine needlework of feathers and flowers, covering the figure in a woven display of green, white and red. Long blonde strands fell over the top of her corset attached to a petite profile. Green eyes peered down onto the seated guest, and she gifted an enchanting smile before referencing to her friend, "Nell, you called for me?"

Nell sat upright with a gleeful expression and wrapped her arms around her new companion, "Taliesen was telling me all about the terrible position this poor fellow is in. He's new here, you see. I was hoping you could help," she paused to hug him more closely, "show him the way."

She meant it in the kindest manner possible, but the statement left Zevran wanting to flee the place entirely. He peeked over to see the gratified smirk on the housemaster's face, leaning back against his plush pillow to see what the newcomer would do.

Sinette's smile never faltered during the theatric display. In fact, a sense of compassion even flickered from behind her eyes. Holding out her hand, she conceded, "Come with me. I know what would make you feel better."

The desire to follow her was not the problem; she was alluring, after all. Rather it was how public the scene had become. Suddenly, it felt like all eyes in the room were on him, much like when the House welcomed him with a brand to his back. This was a test of some kind. He knew it. And if he chose not to follow through, then he was unsure of the consequences that might befall him.

The best he could do was ignore the audience. Or better yet, he could try to play up to it. Swallowing what was left of his dignity, Zevran flashed a disarming smile of his own and took her hand. Gently, she pulled him upright, backing away into the center of the room first and then toward one of the doors behind her. He could feel the spectators watch his departure like a renewed burning on his shoulder. Instead, he let it fuel the intensity in their eye contact, her smile never fading like starlight within reach.

Mustering enough courage to leave the room did not mean he had enough courage to last, however. Once on the other side of the door and in the privacy of a foyer, the Shem woman sensed his hesitance.

"Oh dear," she simpered, running her free hand on his high, define cheek, "Nigh be this way. Trust in me."

She led him up a set of stairs; one that he was relieved did not open out over the sitting area like he was on parade. The woman peered around before opening a door to one side and sliding in with her partner. A fire was already started, offering the room a cozy feel. She poked at the embers to ensure a flame and then turned back to her uncomfortable suitor. To her, the Daedric appeared like he was about to get into trouble; a notion of which made her chuckle all the more appreciatively.

"Come here," She sat on the end of the bed and patted a space beside her. Zevran obeyed, convincing himself that he still may make it out without coming across poorly. Sinette's hollow cheeks and fine brow were emphasized by the amber firelight. She was older than him. Perhaps Taliesen's age. They were silent for several minutes while she studied him. There was no expectation on her part, but he guessed that she was waiting for something.

He was about to speak when she interrupted, "You are beautiful."

His words were lodged in his throat and clearing them, Zevran questioned, "Is that nigh something I say to you?"

She ignored the comment, "Your smile downstairs was so charming. And your eyes… You are nigh who they say you are."

He frowned, confused. The woman reached over and drew the length of his jaw with her fingertip; the sense of which sent a pleasant chill up his spine. A corner of her mouth lifted by his response, her focus steadily on him. She cooed, "You come from Tevinter, yes?"

"No," he shook himself from her touch, brows knitting down. He was from Antiva. He was probably birthed not far from where they were at that very moment.

Her hand cupped his chin again, her soothing voice lost in thought, "I have neh seen such golden eyes."

He pulled back, but she followed into a thoughtful kiss. The embrace seemingly erased any thought the Daedric might have had, replaced instead with youthful desire. Insecurity aside, he returned the favor, his fingers instinctively weaving into her hair and caressing the back of her neck. He could feel her hands rest on his pounding chest, the rapid thudding of which sounded like horse hooves within his own ears. Heaving, Zevran straightened himself to take a breath, but was given little opportunity to recover. Gently, Sinette caught his attention by pulling one hand from behind her head and landing it squarely on her corset. Keen to keep eye contact, she used him to undo the top clip and then the second of her outer dress all the while tugging at the thread below holding his trousers in place. It was like both were released at once, and she dared beckon him further, her hand instructing him to undo the top of her chemise.

From then it was a blur for the lad. He felt flushed and eager. He let her guide him to the right position as he focused on the contours of her lips. They interlocked deeply, his hurried kiss meeting her tongue with equal fervor. The passionate exchange was not to last long, but it was enough for him. Out of breath, a line of sweat coinciding with his rushed exhaustion, he nestled himself into the crook of her neck. The feeling of her fingers tracing his back was relaxing.

"Maker," was all he could muster.

She grinned into his cheek, partly turning toward him with a gentle, sincere look. The way she spoke was matter of fact, but hinted at the notion she was happy for her part, "And now you are a man."

For the coming several days, Zevran was stunned into a near dreamlike state. All he could think about was Sinette. The way she smiled. The way she caressed him. The shape of her hip on his hand. Her soothing, melodic voice. They laid there and talked for a while afterwards about benign things. The weather. How he enjoyed watching the ships. The many uses of honey. He dozed and awoke alone the next morning. Although slightly uneasy, he managed to slip away without anyone's notice and back to the House.

"I see you are distracted," Taliesen chided roguishly as he met his pupil in the back forum that afternoon for their now daily lesson. He grabbed a stick and leaned on it slightly, "Happy?"

Jolted from a thought, Zevran wanted to lie. He managed to say nothing instead.

"Good!" The housemaster chimed, "It is one of the few perks we get. Tis a waste to nigh enjoy it, no?"

"How often are you there?"

He pursed his lips and mused, "Oh, some of the brothers are there nightly. Whenever they get the coin, that is."

Zevran queried with the pointed end of his stick, "And how much did you pay for Sinette?"

Taliesen peered up, "Oh, my friend. It is nigh what you are thinking." Before confusion set in, he quickly corrected, "These women are courtesans!" He emphasized their description with a fiery zing, "They're nigh some cheap whores. Sure, the brothers could find such things if they desired, but why would they when they have the best ladies in the City?"

"But, you exchanged something." He noted, "I saw you."

"Aye," the Shem affirmed rather defensively. "That was a token of my appreciation - for your benefit I might add. They rely on us as much as we rely on them, anyway. You should take note."

It would be one more thing he owed him. The notion of debt did not sit well, although his foreign housemaster seemed unaware, or cared little, about such things. To owe a debt was not couth in Antivan society as it was never certain when the debt would be called for repayment. The Master never exchanged anything with a client without something in return, either coin or mutually agreed favors. The only guests who came with neither were supposed Guild members, but perhaps there were affairs even the lad's eavesdropping was not privy to in the villa.

Zevran would wait another half year before he was given any clear indication of his responsibilities as a house member beyond a porter and afternoon sparring partner. The Vantenii came again, and again everyone clamored around the low, broad table to receive a mini sermon about the previous season. Taliesen, rocked on his stool with checked excitement, a behavior he must have practiced over the years in order to continually rally the troops before him. Beside him sat the cushioned satchel filled with their potential reward.

"Oy!" He called out. "Listen up, friends! These times, they are slow, but fear not. Within this purse lies the remedy to your boredom!"

The young Daedric man had started to come into his own a little. He crouched on the edge of the fire pit chewing on few minew seeds, casually observing the response from the others. Cerelus sat next to him as they shared the treat Zevran brought back from the Nevarrans two days prior. Izeek spoke of the long black and white grain like it was some kind of aphrodisiac. Soaked in sea salt, the seed was supposed to ease the effects of an early summer heat just beginning to hit the coast. Cerelus caught on early that Zevran was the person to talk to with the merchants and offered to purchase a parcel just to try it out. The seeds did not mange to cool them any, but it tasted good so the sales pitch was not entirely deceiving.

The housemaster passed out the jobs like he always did, calling each name as he pulled the chord from the pouch. Zevran leaned over to look at his comrade's token. A book was carved into the wood next to a symbol of what he guessed was a tower. Tiny script, burned by a needle, was scrawled along the top in a form of code. Cerelus studied it before quietly tucking the object away, grabbing a handful of minew seeds with a renewed grimace.

"What's wrong," Zevran inquired.

"Nigh nothing," The older Shem seemed unhappy with the errand he was assigned, though he chose not to elaborate. The others were less content with their offers as well, although no one argued. They simply collected what was theirs and scattered as normal. The evening was unusually subdued.

To the Daedric, it was nothing to fuss over and he went about his business. The following day, he roused himself, set about his daily errands and was by back by early afternoon for lessons. Recently, the housemaster moved from using one large stick for practice to two smaller ones, noting that Zevran was faster on his feet closer to his target. Indeed, this observation was valid as the student could often knock the taller Shem off balance if he was within arm's length.

He emerged from the side gate into the back forum and waited. Already the heat was too much, and the pair would often end up seeking shelter and dousing themselves with well water in effort to cool off. The dusty space was empty though, and the lad half wondered if he should sequester himself in the cool brick building until the Taliesen showed himself.

The decision was made for him as he heard a call from above. He moved out from under the eves to look into the first floor window. The sun felt ferocious on his face. Beyond the glare, he heard Taliesen's voice, "Oy, come up here, I want to talk to you."

He climbed the stairs and caught the housemaster move back to his private quarters. All of the windows were open, allowing a briny cross breeze from the bay to sweep through the house. Taliesen sat shirtless and cross-legged on a mat at his desk and motioned for the lad to sit down beside him in the shade.

He turned with a rectangular wooden chip in hand, smiling as he spoke, "Today is your lucky day, my friend."

Zevran immediately recognized the token and perked up, "An errand?"

He pulled back the icon, "My errand, actually. But, I need some help and figured this would be a good opportunity for you to show your spirit, yes?"

He quirked a brow and reached for the token in a blind attempt to understand, to which his comrade kindly obliged. The Vantenii was no different than the others Cerelus let him ponder over in the past. On one side was the burned mark of the Antivan Shaal, its coiled profile ready to strike. The other side showed a scene depicting a narrow passage with a symbol he did not recognize in the middle. Above the drawing was the secret code, burned into the wood by a needle.

"There are three main kinds of errands, Zevran," Taliesen began thoughtfully, counting on his fingers as he went. "You could be asked to take something, whereby you would return the item to its rightful owner. You could be asked to take someone at the request of another and make arrangements for collection. Or," He hesitated, "you could be given a mark."

The way he said it sounded ominous, and the lad nudged up from his study.

Now that he had his full attention, the housemaster retrieved the token and pointed at the surface, "You see these dots at the top? They are the instruction. The first set of dots is the type of errand. One dot for theft. Two for capture. Three for a mark. The second set of dots is to whom you report your success. One mark to the Vancor. Two to your guild master. Tell me, my little raven, what does this say?"

It was easy, "A mark to the guild master."

Taliesen sat upright and chuckled, "Aye, you are a quick one."

"Who is it?" He referenced to the symbol.

"That symbol is the Berantelli, a merchant house based out of Seleny. Quite a journey from here."

Surely, the mark was not for the entire guild. He persisted, "But, who is it?"

"Ganno is his name," the housemaster replied, abandoning the chip for some wine. He took a long swig before continuing, "He is meant to make a trip to the City in near a week time."

"And what did he do to work up such ire?"

Taliesen paused and peered at the younger, raising his brows with his response, "Does it matter? These are the instructions."

"But-"

"You follow them. Simple, yes?"

The query was innocent, but it was enough to end the conversation. Taliesen sent the lad away with little more of an explanation other than to be ready the next day. They would leave the City by the Weyrs Road, tracing along the river, to meet up their intended target before he ever made it to the Wyncalli Bridge. There was a tavern there, separating a long stretch of hilly woodlands from the outskirts of the City some two days further journey. Journeymen always stopped at this inn to save themselves from spending another evening camped on the roads. Seleny was not terribly far from the coast, but still at least a week's travel and only if the weather permitted. The lush valley provided a humid backdrop for the pair's arrival into the tiny village of Banch, where the Three Greeves resided.

"We will wait here," Taliesen announced as they approached the wood and plaster structure. The inn itself was quaint but was surrounded by a number of low buildings Zevran guessed were used to house horses and other cargo that passed by its gates. The front was nondescript; a simple painted sign showcased three bards playing lutes above the door.

"What have you?" An older maid asked behind the bar as they entered. Three rather travelled Shem sat in a corner of the otherwise empty establishment.

"A room, may you?" Taliesen flashed a confident smile to the middle-aged woman.

Curtly, she huffed a reply, "You can stay in the barn, feign you coin."

Zevran caught that she was looking directly at him as she spoke. The housemaster appeared unfazed though and flatly dropped a silver ginny on the counter with a subtly insulting tisk, "And dinner. I smell a roast, yes?"

The sight of gold would make most Shem comply. It was the same with the Master whenever they travelled to the north, although he was less obliged to openly show such wealth. They were given a small room off the edge of the inn overlooking the stables. There was only a single bed, but it was a proper bed; something Zevran nearly forgot existed with his time at the House. Just the idea of sleeping on something that did not consist of a half rotten mat was heavenly. Taliesen too was pleased by the location, citing they could better watch when journeymen arrived and departed. He said, "This will be ideal."

Their wait would be short and uneventful. The humid afternoon heralded a thunderstorm followed by heavy rain. Music and banter echoed from below as dusk set in. It seemed the Three Greeves was a popular place as travelers quickly took refuge at the backside of the inn. Taliesen was aware of the distrust the Daedric's presence may have on locals and proposed that the younger remain in the room to keep watch. He then disappeared for some time, only resurfacing late into the evening with a bowl of stewed roast and potato.

"Here, I'm sure you are hungry," he offered, motioning for his comrade to sit over by the door. Settling himself, the housemaster took a gander out of the tall, narrow window. "He is here with two others."

Zevran could still hear muted laughter and bustle beyond the door, giving an impression that the evening was far from over.

"Now, the mark was originally to be done on the road, but this will be easier, I think," he spoke indifferently as though he said it more to himself.

"Oh?" He asked mid-bite.

Taliesen looked over from the window, "Aye, he would expect something whilst in the open, but nigh in a sleepy inn."

Zevran frowned at the thought and asked, "He knows he is marked then?"

"If he is smart, he knows," he grinned. "It is why he was keen to travel with others, I suspect. So we must be subtle. Quiet."

"We're nigh going to kill everyone with him…" his tone was unsure, which was responded with a hearty laugh.

"Nigh if we can help it, although that would be an idea if we wanted to draw attention." Taliesen said, amused by such an amateur proposition, before shaking his head, "Too much work though."

"We could poison him," Zevran suggested more seriously, putting down the bowl.

Taliesen paused and eyed his companion, "With what?"

Daen. Minstraak. He could think of a dozen plants toxic enough to kill a man if given in enough quantity and in the right way. The problem was that he had nothing on him, nor did he have the ability to refine such substances on short notice. He briefly pondered what he might find out on the Weyrs banks had he the time.

The housemaster was dismissive, "No, I have a simpler plan."

He moved from the window to the edge of bed to elaborate, "You are going to sneak into his room, wait until he falls asleep and then slit his throat."

"Me!?" The Daedric straightened himself in surprise.

Taliesen nodded, his response hushed, "This is a chance to show what you have learned."

"By killing someone," his tone went flat. "In cold blood."

"You say this in such a dire way," The housemaster grumbled and sat back, scratching his stubbly chin in confusion, "This is something you will eventually have to do, my friend. It is what we are."

It was not what he wanted to be. Indeed, it was not what he thought the Crows were. The Master spoke of them like they were champions of the merchant trade. They kept the kingdom at peace, or so he said. Yet, all of his interactions with the Guild since the old man's death were of thuggish figures with a boorish way of life. The silent visitors, well kept, friendly and keen on their objectives, were like from another world to him. One that did not coincide with the reality he faced.

Taliesen, unaware of this forged insight, put things more simply for his student, "Look, all you have to do is go to his room, hide, kill him, make a hasty exit out the window and you're done."

"And what if I nigh can?" His golden eyes flashed anger back at the older Shem.

But, the housemaster was not bothered by such defiance. He smiled kindly and placed a palm on Zevran's shoulder, "You must."

There seemingly was no choice. Dread flushed his cheeks as they walked together down the hall in shadow, the music loud beneath their feet. They traced the terrace overlooking a crowded hall below and climbed to the second floor. The room on the far end of the corridor was their target, and unlatching the handle, Taliesen shoved the hilt of a dagger into his comrade's hand.

They were huddled closely in the corner against the door. The tall Shem's profile was positioned such that no one could see his smaller companion as he nudged the door open and spoke into the shoulder-length blonde mop at his chin, "He wears a medallion with the symbol of his House. Retrieve it and I will wait for you in the stables."

Zevran backed into the room, only latently glancing around before he returned to Taliesen with concern, "Where am I to hide?"

"You're small, yet. You'll figure it out."

The door shut quietly and silence remained. All the lad could think about was the potential of being caught and panic began to encase him. The room was slightly larger than the one downstairs with a lone bed and table ornamenting the space. Rain poured onto the shutters of two narrow windows, and the Daedric half wondered if his small frame could even fit through the slits.

Footstep echoed in the hall. Panic renewed, he spotted the only place he could hide. Halfhazardly, he slid underneath the bed just as the door opened.

"I nigh know why I agreed to this, Dae."

"Was it the coin or the docket to Mal Envo that caught you?"

He lay still on his back, the blade clutched tightly on his chest as he heard the two Shem grouse to one another in the doorway. They were carrying something and before he knew it, a large object was tossed onto the straw mattress above him.

The first Shem sighed, "It is always like this. Do you nigh get tired of carrying him around?"

Dae chuckled deeply. Zevran shakily turned to see thick leather boots as he took a step closer to the bed. The man nudged the object below, "Eh, he pays well and a few too many drinks is the worst it gets, my friend. Beside, we have the rest of the night to ourselves. Can nigh be that bad."

His friend conceded, "Aye, I guess you're right."

"Good, you take first watch then." Dae said and walked to the door.

"Wha!" The other follow protested, "I brought him up here!"

"Oh," he goaded in return, "I'll nigh leave you here all night. Settle in with a mug."

With that the door closed again. At first Zevran was unsure if the Shem remained, but he released a breath as he picked up the conversation on the other side of the door. One of the pair continued back down the hallway. The other shuffled a bit before finding a comfortable place against the wall.

As silence returned, he could hear a muffled snore above him. As cautiously as he could, the lad pulled himself from his hidden spot and crouched on the far side under the window. The marked target, Ganno, was passed out on his side facing him. What little light exposed by the spaces in the shutters showed only a mass of brown covering a round face in the dark.

He had to slit his throat, so Taliesen warned. And if he chose not to, what then? There had to be a reason the Guild would want him dead, but hidden in the shadow, the Daedric could not find such a motive. Perhaps he made a poor trade. Or maybe he owed money to someone and reneged payment. Many minutes passed as the lad sat staring at the slumbering figure, and he almost convinced himself that if he did nothing, time might stop. That was until he heard a loud noise on the other side of the door. Jolted from his corner, he first kept keen watch of the entry and then Ganno as he momentarily awoke and then rolled on his back to fall asleep again.

He was going to have to do something. That much was clear. Slowly, Zevran stood, tightly clutching the dagger as he inched toward the Shem's bedside. His eyes were used to the dim light by now, and he could see that the marked was a short middle-aged man. His frame was round and pudgy and he wore his wealth with wanton abandon. His clothing, although travelled, was as fine as someone he would encounter in the heart of the City, and his wrists and fingers were all ornamented with delicate metal. The lad spotted the edge of a large oval pendant from the opening of his linen and silk vest. Leaning over, he wanted to make sure it was the right one before he tried to remove it.

Ganno snorted and stirred a little before groggily opening an eye. Zevran stilled himself but it was too late as the pair made direct eye contact in the dark.

Terror shot through him as he immediately covered the Shem's mouth. Ganno, now panicked, swung out at his would-be assassin, all the while struggling against the sudden weight on his chest. Muffled screams were nearly drowned out by the rain pounding outside and the banter of music far below them. Yet, Zevran distinctly caught the sound of another thud on the other side of the door.

Instinctively, he knew what he had to do, even if he lacked the desire to do it. He clutched the pendant and yanked at the same time he pushed the dagger in. The Shem let go of the Daedric to clutch at his throat instead, gasping for air. Just as impulsively, he released his hold on the blade right as the door rushed open. There, in the entry, stood a man far larger than Zevran would have ever assumed simply by looking at his boots.

Like lightning, he backed away to the window, throwing open the shudders. Climbing into the narrow space, he could feel wrath approach with each thunderous step, the gurgled lurching of his charge still heaving on the bed. The lad leaned out and made a minor shriek when he suddenly realized he was facing a large drop onto a ground floor building below.

What was he to do? Wrath was almost upon him, so he jumped. The landing was hard, almost knocking the life out of him as he rolled down the sloped gable, over the side of the building, and into an empty stall filled with horse manure. In the deluge, he immediately sat up listening to shouts from above. He needed to flee before the guards managed to get to him. Slipping in the mire, the lad barely managed to his feet before realizing the medallion was no longer in his hand.

Another round of panic ensued as Zevran frantically searched in the rain. The stall he fell into adjoined a courtyard lined with large carts. He stumbled out into the yard, scouring the ground as he went.

"You!" Came a cry.

Zevran jerked up to the bellow of the man he narrowly escaped, now approaching with an axe. He backed into the far side of the yard, acutely aware there was nowhere to flee. And then, there in front of him, he saw the golden ornament half buried in mud. The broad Shem swung and the lad ducked, bolting to the object around the other side of his challenger. Grabbing it, he ran as fast as he could out of the courtyard and past the backside of the stables. Taliesen said he would be waiting, but only tired mares met him as he passed.

Another Shem, the other guard, joined in the chase, and now both were screaming slurs as they went. Zevran hastened down the road, struggling to think where he could go. If they caught up with him, he had little defense against an axe and whatever else the other was carrying.

Before him, another figured stepped out into the path; the glint of a drawn sword held out from his side was the sole sign he was there at all. Unable to stop in the rain, Zevran could only manage to miss him by skidding onto the gravel path and into the bushes beyond.

By the time he looked up, still winded from the chase, he realized it was Taliesen who was engaged with the pair. In fact, the broad Shem with the axe was already taken down and the housemaster stood straight in the downpour, the tip of his blade at the chest of the second aggressor.

He offered a smile, "It nigh has to end this way."

The man stopped and stared wide-eyed. He was older and apparently had more to live for. Cautiously, he dropped his weapon and gave a dismissive wave, "I nigh get paid enough for this shit."

"Good, we have an understanding then."

The conversation was surprisingly civil considering the crime just committed. The housemaster backed away from the man, who was more concerned about the other guard, and nudged Zevran with his foot, "Off we go now."

Their retreat was quick and quiet. But the rain was cold and a third round of panic was setting in as Zevran continually checked for anyone following. Not far up the road, Taliesen turned off to retrieve their gear.

The lad gaped, "They're going to know we did this!"

The housemaster casually held out a leather bag. His tone was cheerful in the dark, "Aye, I'm counting on it."

Numbly, he took the satchel and stared vacantly out onto the banks of the Werys River. Taliesen already returned to the road, however, as though nothing out of the ordinary transpired. Whistling, he slowed his pace and heckled the younger to follow, "Nigh a night to be left out. We should find some shelter. A barn or something."

Did the Shem really think a barn was going to keep them safe? He was tasked to kill someone quietly and instead managed to fall off the roof and run out of the Three Greeves with two men screaming at his back. He left the dagger. By morning, the entire village of Banch was going to be looking for them. He could imagine the old maid grumbling about how she never should have let them both through the door. With the Daedric come bad luck, or so northerners always echoed. And in this case, that seemed to be true.

"Oy!" Taliesen's voice jolted him back to the present. "Nigh fall asleep back there! You coming?"

Zevran muttered his reply, "No."

The housemaster stopped on the path and turned around. The moon was peeking in and out from behind the clouds, and in the dimness, he could barely make out the wheat stalk in the tall grass, covered in muck from his ordeal. He managed a chuckle and tried to stir his comrade again, "Come now, it was nigh that bad."

"I nigh asked for this!" He shot back. He could not tell if it was rain he felt on his reddened cheeks or tears. Turning more fully, Zevran wanted to disappear.

The rain had a conversation between them. Taliesen relaxed his shoulders and looked around before studying his friend again. When he finally spoke, his words hinted his sympathy, "Come on. Let us get you cleaned up, yes?"

The Daedric reluctantly nodded. What else was he to do? They plodded together in the rain. About a mile up the road, shelter revealed itself in the form of a secluded bothy on the hillside. A bucket of rainwater was enough to help the lad wash most of the mud and manure out his hair while Taliesen built up a fire in an open pit in silence.

"You have the medallion, I hope."

Zevran closed his eyes and dug out the cursed object from his boot. He offhandedly tossed it over before resuming his tense post by the fire.

The Shem sighed and scrutinized the golden trinket. From his position, he could see the sad look on the Daedric's pale, hollow face. It was a longing expression. One that hoped for a far away place. It was one he knew well.

"I understand, you know."

Zevran glanced over from the fire and remained still. Taliesen tucked the pendant into his leather vest and began to stoke the embers. He continued, "How you must feel about all this. You and I are nigh all that different, I would say."

He frowned, "You nigh wanted to be a crow?"

His reply was blunt as he raised brows, still looking into the flame. "I nigh had a choice in the matter."

The thought never occurred to Zevran. Taliesen seemed so content with his place in Antivan society. To him, the Guild simply was a fact of life, so it was in the best interest for its housemembers to make the most of what they had. In fact, everyone in the House seemed to follow such doctrine with unspoken, yet also unbridled, pride. Perhaps there was no better place because they lacked the option all along.

After a long moment, he asked thoughtfully, "Are all the brothers the same?"

Taliesen shook his head, "Most of the brothers were hardened long before they ever stepped foot in House Arnii. Borne and Velnas were mercenaries for nearly ten years in the Free Marches before landing in Antiva. Cregin was a soldier. Cerelus – he was prison guard. I'll nigh tell you where, but give him a brandy or two and he'll tell you a story you'll nigh soon forget."

"What about Ren?"

Taliesen nudged up and smirked, "Oh, I found him by accident. He was running from someone."

"They joined the house then?" Zevran pulled his knees up.

With a nod, "Such members are called converts. Like you."

The housemaster made it sound like he joined the Chantry. But the Guild was no religion, "I nigh had the desire to be converted."

"Well, certainly, it was better than the other option for you, no?" Taliesen glared and resumed his watch of the fire, "It nigh matters. We all ended up here in our own way, whether born into it, lured to it, sold to it. Whatever."

"What about you?" The lad squinted sullenly, "How did you end up here?"

At first he did not answer. An uncertain expression crossed his long features, and the Shem continued to poke at the fire. Slowly, though, words began to flow, "You remember that saying back when I took you to the courtesans?"

"Forever their sons wrought crows?" He recalled.

A smile surfaced at the younger's sharp memory. "Well, it turns out the Guild takes such things quite seriously. My father, he was a master swordsman for the Vintolli House. It's somewhere on the north side of the City. You know, I've never even been there?" He paused for a moment. "Anyway, he was on an errand in Fereldan when he met my mother. And one day, he decided to nigh return. So, they stayed in Denerim where I was born, followed by my sisters."

Zevran sat up uneasily and reached for his shirt he left to dry on the edge of a wooden stool. Taliesen leaned over his stick with focus, a contorted grimace emphasizing his sharp jaw.

"He was every bit a caring father, you know. I'm sure he must have loved my mother. But then, when I was six, nigh from nowhere, he took me and we left. I never understood how a father could just rip a child from his mum like that. We journeyed to Highever where he knew this Arl, and he became his personal sword hand. So, I grew up there in the keep, and when I was old enough, he apprenticed me. I even trained the Arl's eldest son, in fact. Marius was his name.

One day when I was about sixteen, a man came to Highever. I nigh knew who he was other than he was from the North and that my father was unhappy. They argued over something and he left, only to return several days later with three more men. A fight ensued and my father was killed. In the aftermath, they took me. Nigh even the Arl stopped them. We simply got onto a boat and here I am."

A hush came over the bothy as Taliesen finished his story. He remained mulling over some distant memory as Zevran slowly responded, "That's terrible."

He glanced over and huffed through his nose, "The worst part was my father's warning. When the man first left, he took me aside and assured me they would return. And when they did, I was to go with them with nigh a question, and I was neh to mention my mother or my sisters to anyone. Ever. To the Guild, and to me, they are dead and always have been."

A chill went through the lad at such insight. The rain persisted until early the following morning, and the pair slowly made their way back to the heat of the coast. Zevran continued to feel troubled by previous days' events. The notion of so coldly killing someone was sinful in the eyes of the Maker. The notion that this was what he was to become did not sit well with him either.

The sight of the House was both painful and relieving. The Daedric dropped their supplies near the back forum to unpack later and began to head up for a proper wash and long awaited sleep. The housemaster had other ideas though as he tugged on the lad's vest when he passed.

"Nigh yet. You're coming with me."

"To where?" Zevran objected but quickly straightened himself as Taliesen turned back with a threatening expression.

Catching his response, he relaxed and morphed into a more jovial stance, "To the Guild Master, of course! We have to show him what we've done, yes?"

Zevran swallowed and followed after the housemaster back out their front entry and into the bright street. He wondered why he had to go with Taliesen at all if it was never his errand in the first place. Perhaps he was expected to explain his blunder. A knot began to form in the lad's gut at the thought. They traced the length of Dockside, up the Grand Mile and into the Merchant District. Passing the Vancor and the Chantry, it was like they were heading toward Zevran's old home again. The cobbled streets were clean and wide, seemingly unburdened by the traffic he had grown so accustomed to. The merchants were readying their stalls for when the Chantry would finally open its doors, followed by a flood people released from midday mass.

They rounded a corner into a close and climbed a set of steps adjoining two terraces. Coming out the other side, Zevran turned to look down onto the first ivory Spire just as the Chantry rang its bells. Taliesen was already up the road, looking for another back entry into a villa. The residence was several stories of white washed walls and red tile, adorned with vines and flowers. The far off sound of bustling merchants below was paired with a rather scenic view of Dockside. For a moment, it did feel like back home.

"Oy, nigh get lost," came the warning.

The lad remembered his place and entered the close to an open door. A Daedric maid greeted the pair kindly and wordlessly ushered them inside. Taliesen already knew where he was going and headed straight for a set of stairs that led to an upper floor veranda. Zevran, though, could not help his distraction. He occasionally looked back at the fair face of the young maid as she meekly smiled in return whenever they made eye contact.

Taliesen opened a broad door onto a covered balcony and made his entrance. Before them was a serene space lined with lush plants, ornately padded benches, and open stone arches that flushed the space with a cool breeze and natural light. At the center of the room was a large wooden table surrounded by several intricately carved chairs.

Before he knew it, the door closed quietly behind them, causing the lad to tense. The housemaster sauntered toward the desk and dropped the iconic medallion onto its surface with a thud.

"It is done," He stated rather proudly.

"Good," came a gravelly voice from one of the archways. The pair swerved to meet the voice's owner, an older heavyset man, as he walked to the desk and inspected his prize. "I heard it was quite a scene."

Taliesen beamed in affirmation and offered a hand behind him, "Credit to our freshest convert, for he did exactly as needed."

The older Shem nudged up to see around the housemaster's lean frame at the smaller blonde fellow beyond. Zevran adjusted his tunic and vest self-consciously, noting how he must appear after falling into a horse stall and then walking another two days into a blistering summer heat. Even with his feigned courage, he guessed his presence was not so impressive as the Guild Master spit out an olive seed and motioned them to sit.

He poured himself wine before retrieving a lock box for the pendant, never bothering to look at the men as he spoke, "So you're the one I heard so much about."

Confused, Taliesen quirked his brow and peered over to his companion. The lad stilled himself, unsure if the Guild Master was referring to him at all.

After a moment, he leaned back in his chair and took a swig of wine, "You are quite fortunate, you know. And apparently you do as you are told, so perhaps he was right."

"Who?" The Daedric's question was almost inaudible.

The Guild Master made eye contact, "Well, Vinter. He seems to think Philippe valued you. Do you think that was true?"

Zevran's eyes widened at the mention of both names. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words lodged in his throat with the final memories he had of either of them. The Master was like a father, though he could never admit it. And although he hoped he would one day see his approval, he never dared ask for nor did he expect such things. Especially after being discarded so quickly upon his death. Vinter seemed to ensure, even hasten, his departure as though his existence was some dirty secret. A man he trusted, whose only advice was to think with his head, thrust him without warning into a violent life he was only beginning to become aware of.

Eventually, he would have to answer. Taliesen was becoming noticeably anxious by such a private topic, "I would nigh know. He's dead."

The Guild Master smiled wryly and offered a chortle, "Well, you are right about that."

The conversation shifted to less directed subjects as the Guild Master seemingly lost interest in the newcomer and wished to discuss more immediate matters. Congratulatory remarks were made. A small leather satchel passed hands.

Their walk back to the House in the afternoon heat was numbing to the lad. The Guild Master spoke as though he personally knew the Master. And Vinter. But in all his years at the villa, the older Shem never made a visit, nor did he ever call upon the old man to make deliveries. At least ones that he knew of.

Taliesen was not thrilled by this sudden revelation either. When they returned to the house, he instructed his housemate to wait beside his desk while he counted out the contents of the purse. The silence was uneasy as Zevran sat in thought, caught up in summer afternoons long lost to him.

"It seems you've made a friend," the housemaster announced as he pushed over a stack of coin.

"What's this?" Zevran asked.

He twitched up and blandly replied, "That is your payment, minus my share, the House and what you owe me, of course."

Four Antivan gold sat before him, and stunned, the lad picked at the currency with hesitation. How he longed to go back to crushing dried leaves into powders and greeting visitors at the door.

"Who was this person the Guild Master spoke of?" Taliesen casually inquired as he tallied the remaining ginny on his desk. "What did he do that was so noteworthy?"

Zevran studied the coin in his hand bitterly. He side-glanced, "Master Naheeme. He was a floraesen."

The housemaster paused and peered over. He was trying to pry something from his memory, speaking slowly, "Master Philippe Naheeme? From the Guidain House?"

The Daedric nodded.

It was as though all the months of observation finally clicked for him. Taliesen sat straight, crystal blue eyes flicking open in shock as he dropped the parcel he was counting and nearly whispered his next question, "Were you his apprentice?"

"I was his scribe." And his caretaker. And his messenger.

"Who can speak and write Orlesian," Taliesen countered.

Zevran turned to him and shrugged, "He favored the language."

Shaking his head, the housemaster was already on to the next thought, "You know, Gynn, the Guild Master, he is from the Guidain House. How did you end up here?!"

He felt defeated. A morose expression befell him, "It nigh matters anymore."

"Oh, it matters, by the Maker's mark," Taliesen suddenly seemed more cautious of his space, momentarily retrieving himself to shut the door. As he sat back down, he continued in a hushed tone, "I somehow doubt Gynn is privy to this gem, else you would nigh be in _this_ House, I promise."

Zevran sighed, "So?"

"The Guidain House is famous for their floraesens," He said very seriously, keen to catch the younger's eye. "I've heard Guidain has been in the pocket of the Rogue Prince for nearly an age, and I believe it from what I've seen. They control near everything in this City."

Zevran was uninterested until Taliesen made his next remark, "Whatever he taught you, you must forget it."

His brows knit down as he warily replied, "Forget what!"

"Whatever you managed to learn from that old man," Taliesen was firm in his response. "You'll neh find use for it here, and if Gynn ever thought otherwise, nigh any good would come from it!"

It dawned on him, then. Could what he have learned been valuable? The evening lessons and chores seemed more like the hobby of an old teacher; the Master never gave the impression that his little helper would do anything more. Zevran thought of the copper lantern hidden in the attic. He kept it for safekeeping, but for what real purpose? Slowly, the notion that these hard-earned skills may not have been wasted after all sunk into the young man's mind to forge new ideas for his future.

But the warning fell with a hammer's blow. Taliesen nudged his companion's shoulder, sure to bring him back to reality, "You must trust me – some trades are worth killing for, Zevran. Bury this if you value your life. Find a new skill, I nigh care. But nigh anyone can know of this, you understand?"


	3. Part Three

Part 3 of 5

**Part Three**

The years would pass quicker than anyone would realize, and the wheat stalk was no longer the scrawny child who found himself on the doorstep of the docks like his tragic tale might imply. Indeed, his trim form honed itself into shape, although like Ren, he would always be lithe by comparison to the Shem brethren of his House. His angular, hollow face filled out; his youthful insecurity smoothed into a snarky wit. To the much distain of the Guild and its Masters, Zevran would become the enigma of House Arnii. Locally, he would simply be known as the Golden Boy of Tern.

Such notoriety over so few years would often be taken with a grain of salt by the seasoned traveler, as tall stories were of no short supply in Dockside. However, this Daedric lad was seemingly the real thing. He was young – broaching his early twenties – and talented, lending strong favor to good tutorship by the housemaster. He was attractive, which was not uncommon among the Daedric or Daelish alike; they were both admired and loathed for carrying fair complexions and what were considered refined, angelic features. He was also smart. Probably too smart for his own good, for it was also no secret that the Golden Boy enjoyed scheming in his own way. It was a pastime for him when he had nothing better to do.

Infamy thrives a duality. A reputation can afford perks that perhaps would otherwise be unattainable. However, fame can also breed such a pride that one can be blinded from their potential downfall. Attaining this recognition for Zevran was wholly by accident, but once he had it, the high was more intense than any herb he could refine or woman he could lure. And the lengths he would go to keep it were to define his character for the rest of his days.

It was made clear to Zevran early in his stay in House Arnii that he would learn a trade. Something of use to the House, that is. Taliesen was to see to it personally and apprenticed the young lad much like his father did for him. Already for a year, the housemaster worked with the Daedric to at least handle a weapon, but upon realizing that the younger had an aptitude, the tutorship became more like a mission to see just how far he could go with it.

Taliesen's mantra of improvisation continued to ring true, but he deliberately chose to train his protégé to use a set of daggers with a technique perfected by the northern Unt tribes in the Quanari lands. The housemaster thought the style suited his small stature better and would certainly come off as a shock against anyone traditionally trained.

Taliesen beamed proudly as he recalled how his father specialized in all sorts of underhanded fencing. "The Arl was particularly fond of swordplay. The Orlesian jousts and hunts bored him, he said. You use too much of the animal's skill over your own."

The pair would meet daily, usually in the late afternoon or early evening before one of the Salty Brood collected them for dinner and, if coin was spare, drinks and music later at the tavern.

"I mean, how hard is it to hold a stick on a horse?" The housemaster wondered as he accepted some well water. It was fall and the afternoon breeze was cool on his back, "These knights would get all spry in their shiny sets of armor – Maker, you should have seen them, Zev! I knew the armorer's nephew and he would tell me stories about what it took to get those fat bastards on the back of a stud. And for what point? These knights neh go to battle in such things, but buck about like cocks on roost. Could you imagine the faff in this City should the Princes put on a show like that?"

Zevran smirked at the recollection of the housemaster's far off memories. The descriptions seemed foreign and unrealistic. A swordsman in armor? What a laughable idea. A metal guard he could understand, but an entire set would just slow a man down. Make him a target. And the pinching. He could only think how it must smell, especially on a hot summer day.

"How did they meet?"

Taliesen put down the clay mug and retrieved his sparing stick, "My father and the Arl? Oh, I nigh know. Denerim, I think."

Zevran continued to lean on the side of the well and casually prodded, "So, do you still know the Arl, then?"

"Ack, No!" He cried, sighing into the air with a smile, "These are just stories of a past life, my friend. Nothing more."

That was not completely true and Zevran knew it. Ever since his first errand with the housemaster and his candid admission over the fire, the Daedric felt that longing to return to some memory of home as keenly as he felt his own. Taliesen was far less willing to reveal to the younger anything that made him appear weak after that, yet he continued to tell tales of his youth that spun fantastical compared to their simple brick and plaster dwelling in Dockside. Denerim was the City of Dogs, as Taliesen described it, much like Antiva was the City of Steps. Many miles of grasslands and bogs and mountains separated the townships by a long golden road up to the sleepy hamlet of Highever. Castles were built thick like strongholds protected by moats and bridges. People kept to themselves, mostly. The Chantry was everywhere.

Through their daily lessons, the two spent much of their time chatting. Zevran guessed Taliesen just desired someone to talk to, and the younger, being a captive audience and from a similar conscripted background, appealed to him as a teacher might look upon a student. The housemaster rarely asked him questions about his past, which was fine by the young man, for he had few tales of worthy note and the subjects the Shem presented often echoed similar yarns the old Master would retell, only from Southern kingdoms rather than the North.

Zevran learned that Taliesen was very close to the Arl's eldest son, Marius, and it struck him that their friendship may not have been as simple as the housemaster made it out to be. They were inseparable from their first meeting and as the pair grew up, they would conjure dreams about escaping the confines of the keep for greater adventures. Marius held no desire to take on his father's passions or roles when his time came, passing instead to his younger brother Fergus. And Taliesen, unbound by stately restraint, was more than happy to indulge him, promising him even that they could always find a way to make the world right. Zevran wanted to inquire further what that meant, but the subject was already quite personal and his colleague suddenly became morose, electing to finish their lesson early that day.

The housemaster would also wax lyrical about the how social the Arl's family was and the annual festivals they held where the common folk clad themselves in masks to drink and dance late into the night.

"Sounds quite Orlesian," the Daedric noted, recalling similar stories of the Gran Marque te la Bête, a verbose celebration which ushered in the fall season over Val Royeaux.

"Well, to be fair, we were Orlesian before the war." Taliesen winked knowingly, which earned a quizzical reaction. By the time the housemaster came to live in Highever, the war in Fereldan was long over. Rebellions seemed to be commonplace in the South, particularly against Orlais. Formally, the Fereldan-Orlesian conflict started over ever-rising taxes imposed on the Fereldan lords. They could not own their lands nor claim rightful titles their forebears held for centuries. Many of the Banns were also coerced, or forced, to marry into Orlesian families, setting up a tense exchange of loyalties among the townships. After fifty some years of bloodshed and a series of failed uprisings, the final blow came when a would-be king from Redcliffe rose from the dead to lead his army to victory. Such a fable was surely embellished for the sake of history, Zevran mused, but how else to better rally the minds of the defeated than to involve the Maker himself?

"Do you think you will ever go back and see your home again?" Zevran asked one day in passing.

The query was innocent enough and genuine. After all, the world Taliesen described was with such great passion, it was as though he could reach out and show it to the lad. But, it was obvious that such a question was not welcomed. The housemaster snapped his mouth shut tight and straightened. After a moment, he curtly replied, "No."

As temperamental as Taliesen was, he was equally swift to reframe himself in a better light. He turned to his student once he realized the silence was becoming too awkward and melted into a wry smile, "Why would I crave such things? I found my adventure here."

The Salty Brood was quite a jovial bunch, once Zevran figured out what made each member tick. Cerelus was easy – he enjoyed a good bottle of brandy, which sounded straightforward enough until the Daedric attempted to actually find the one he requested. The older Shem was the first to recognize the young man's golden touch with the merchants and was keen to wring out as much as he could with this good fortune. Two years later, the off-mentioned bottle became a running joke among privy housemembers, until one day a dainty cushioned satchel was placed squarely in the center of the tavern table, a feline grin plastered on the Daedric's sharp chin.

Cerelus, unprepared, fumbled a bit in shock, "How did you come by this?!"

His grin widened and he flashed golden eyes with a laugh. He won it, but he was not about to tell a table of armed men about such luck, "I have my ways."

"Pay up, old man!" Velnas reached toward the purse as Cerelus snatched it protectively. The table broke into hearty sniggers.

"No, no!" Zevran held up a hand amiably, "Consider it a favor. Those are far more valuable."

Velnas and Borne always worked together. They treated each other like brothers; although it was clear they were not related. Velnas had a very dark skin and held a giant's gate much like Cregin. He was witty and smart too as he often caught onto Zevran's jokes before anyone else at the table. Borne, one the other hand, was more brawn than brain. Only slightly smaller than his friend, he was fair and broad. He was easily amused and angered, which made for a frightening combination when he was filled with ale or worked up by some story. The pair met while in the Free Marches. They were fighting on opposites sides of a war and decided one day that they had enough of the senseless violence. In Velnas' mind, becoming mercenaries with a goal could pay them far better than hacking at faceless foes for a landlord he would never meet and for which he would never benefit from their victory.

Cregin came from a similar background, only he was a soldier, not a mercenary, and originated somewhere near Rivaine. He was a serious fellow and usually quiet. Built like a mountain, he reminded Zevran of the descriptions he read about the Qunari, mindful and foreboding. He had a sense of humor though and liked a good practical joke. He also had family in the North and would send back trinkets he found to his sister when he had the chance. The notion of a housemember having a family not tied to the guild caught Zevran off guard at first, especially after the story Taliesen told. But then again, the tallest Shem was not born into the Crows, so perhaps he was spared such obligations.

Of all the housemembers, the only one Zevran was unable to crack was Ren. The Daelish roommate was rarely around and when he was, he was either readying himself for an errand or busying himself with marking others. His specialty was tattoos, which unsurprisingly, made him a favorite among not only the brethren of House Arnii, but other houses as well. If someone wanted to be marked, he was required to supply the ink. And the ink Ren needed was expensive, made from a combination of a fine mud, ground stone, and wood bark from the Halth'le tree. The mud gave the ink texture; the stone color. Zevran could not figure out what the bark was for, but knew the tree came from the Daelish Wood and was likely what gave the ink excessive value.

Taliesen had been pressuring Zevran to get his brand marked for months. And for months, the Daedric man had been avoiding the suggestion. It was not that he was unwilling to be tattooed. On the contrary, he thought the markings Ren completed were beautiful and intricate. He just really disliked the Daelish man. Ren was sullen and visibly held a disdain for Zevran ever since he stepped foot into House Arnii. Nothing the younger did was adequate, and he could not understand where the unbridled hatred stemmed from. And it was not without effort. Zevran tried talking, bribing, offering favors in return for tutorship. Nothing worked. In fact, the harder he tried, the more visceral the reactions became. Ren felt pestered, and Zevran was like a mosquito to him.

One day, a small glass vial was dropped into Zevran's lap. He was attempting to sharpen a knife Taliesen gave him for common use. It was a poor blade, but he had little money even with the early errand given to him, and he was trying to save up for something better. The lad stopped what he was doing to glare into the sunny forum.

The housemaster stood over him with his usual candor. A straw of grass stuck out of the side of his thin, long face and he announced, "It's time."

Zevran sighed, "For what?"

"Just get it done," was all he said as he walked back into the house. The younger immediately knew what the older meant and a deep groan escaped him. He had little choice than to seek Ren out after that, and the next time he spotted the slender, raven-haired fellow, he plucked up the courage to approach him.

It was an uncharacteristic meeting as the Daelish man was at the tavern that evening, which was a rare occurrence on its own, and he seemed to be in a cheerful mood. To Zevran, Ren appeared completely different when he smiled. All the darkness in his eyes seemed to clear away, revealing a deep pool of blue waves. He was quite charming as well, when he wished to be, occasionally telling a story of his own to the crowd of weary travellers.

He sat down next to the Daelish man and felt his roommate stiffen. A frown etched his refined face, straining the scars down his left cheek, and Ren peered over at the younger cautiously.

Zevran took a breath and almost slammed the vial on the table. He was growing tired of this game.

Ren stared at the jar momentarily; banter continued around them undisturbed. The pause lingered a little too long, and Zevran was about to give up when he finally replied, "Meet me in the back forum tomorrow. Bring the vial and two ginny."

Two ginny! He had the audacity to charge him? Confronted by such an insult, the Daedric swivel back with red-hot anger before he was cut short of a retort.

"Ren," came a warning across the table. Taliesen send an icy scowl that seemed to convey his message. The roommate broke into a jeering smirk and waved the offense off with a tisk.

As instructed, reluctantly, Zevran emerged in the back forum the following day, sans ginny. If Ren wanted money, he was going to have to fight for it. His roommate was already there, waiting for him in the shade under the far side eves. This was his spot where he chose to do all of his arrow trimming and needlework for various gear he acquired. As basic as the supplies the housemembers could afford, the Daelish man had a way of decorating his things uniquely enough to make it evident to whom the items belonged – loath anyone who dared touch it.

"Sit down," he commanded. A set of tools was laid out beside him on a leather mat and as Zevran acquiesced, he issued another, "Ink."

He did not know what to expect. The tools were long, needle-like reeds that were tapped into the skin over and over by a tiny mallet. Past observation showed that the process took a considerable amount of time and discomfort given the expression on the various men's faces. The results were nice, but all nice things came with a sacrifice.

Zevran took off his shirt and Ren surveyed his upper back. He gave a grunt and nodded shrewdly, "I now understand why he wanted it marked."

He jerked back with uncertainty, "What are you talking about?"

Ren tapped on his right shoulder blade over the brand, "You can hardly see it. Apparently, your attempt to mend it was too successful."

"Great," Zevran groused. He guessed this was better than another round with a hot poker. The embossed mark was still there; he could acutely feel it as Ren went to work around the edges first. Keen not to appear pathetic, he kept most of the wincing concealed and was glad he was at least facing away from his nemesis.

Several hours passed, and with it, the pain merged into a numbing boredom. Ren was focused, only pausing to get a closer look or wipe something away. Zevran had to sit stock still in a rather uncomfortable position, with his knees up and back straight. Chewing on his cheek, he became lost in thought to pass the time. He thought of the road he and the Master travelled on to the North when he was young. He was nearly ten and the old man wanted that special plant from the Daelish Wood. The edge of the forest was stark in his memory, although he never recalled caring much when he was there. He remembered how withdrawn the Master was about entering, and the thought invoked a passage from his favored book still hidden deep in a crate in the attic.

"Let all those enter know the wrath of my people."

Ren paused as Zevran continued to blithely ponder over the past.

"What did you say?"

He nudged up and quickly glanced before replying, "Oh, neh. It's just a thought."

Ren squinted, his words tinted with doubt, "You speak Daelish?"

Zevran stilled himself as he recognized the error, for he uttered the sentence in the foreign dialect. No one, aside from Taliesen, knew he could read and write, and even then the housemaster assumed only Orlesian and Antivan. He chuckled a bit and shrugged, "I know bits and pieces."

The pause lingered and he was afraid another argument was at hand. If Ren was especially secretive of anything, it was his culture. He was strangely prideful despite abandoning the woodlands for life in the City. He dipped his reed into the inkwell before inquiring, "And what else do you know?"

"Oh, I always thought it was rather silly that the Shem call the forest to the north the Daelish Wood." This was his chance to be cheeky and get out of this predicament. He clucked, "The 'Wood One's Wood.'"

His snark earned a guffaw, and a heartening relief washed over him. After a moment, the Daelish man's voice perked up over his shoulder, "And do you know where the word Daedric comes from?"

Daedric was a common, more polite word for the city elvhen, the myriad of migrants released onto Thedas after the Exhalted March on the Dales many, many years ago. Zevran read all about their history among a series of tomes the Master kept in his archive, albeit they were written from the Shem perspective. The books cited that the fall of the Daelish was punishment for crimes against the Maker; their kin were left to suffer a wondering eternity, never to return home. Many accepted the wisdom of Andraste, however, her teaching and the healing power of the Chantry, and mercy was gifted upon them. They were accepted into the Shemlen cities, incorporated into their culture in exchange for their own. The term used to describe the city folk was so similar to their nomadic relatives; one might even argue they sounded the same, lest a linguist carefully distinguished the syllables correctly.

The lad grinned and chimed, "The 'walled people.'"

"No, that is nigh right." The tone was flat and sinister. Ren seemed to have renewed interest in finishing the tattoo as he corrected his younger brother, "True, Dae'lish does mean 'one of the wood'. Tell me though, with all your great vision, what does 'dric' mean?"

He was confused. Knitting his brows, he halfhazardly answered with the word he knew to be correct, "Wall."

"Yes. 'Walled wood.'" He was matter of fact, and it dawned on the younger that he might have mistranslated, or the books he read misrepresented, the meaning of the phrase. The reed felt harsh on his upper back as Ren recited in his native tongue, "As the wall closed on the Venadahl, so did the light upon it leaves casting her children into darkness. They forget. And they are happy for it."

It was foolish for Zevran to believe Ren detested him for some little known crime he may have committed. Like the Shem, Ren disliked his kind. It was simple as that, and the notion only served to further perplex and infuriate the young man.

He waited until the marking was finished to ask his question. Seeing as there was no way to win this fellow over any time soon, Zevran was eager to tell him what he thought, "If you are so convinced, then why are you here? Go back to your wood if you despise this place so rather than inflict me with your regret."

For a moment, his roommate was stunned silent; he was left peering up through his jet bangs into calm, yet focused eyes. The response, delivered in the same dialect, was remarkably articulate, lacking any fear or remorse. He eventually recovered though, leaning to one side to start cleaning the reeds and inkwell, speaking intently as he went, "I nigh would, had I choice."

But he was not yet finished. Zevran stood and looked down upon his brethren for the first time with a sense of resentment, "Choices are nigh given but taken, my friend. You should make use of what you have rather than squander it."

Their rapport was shaky at best. Several months passed before Ren would even tolerate Zevran in the same room again after he dared lecture the older on the challenges of life. What did he know about wasted skill and knowledge anyway? He was a child, arrogant and willful.

True, he may have been willful enough, but Zevran harbored more skill than most in Tern. He was certainly instilled the wisdom early in his youth to not wallow in his circumstances like a beggar at the Chantry. He was to make the best out of what he deemed a bad situation. After all, as the housemaster pointed out on many an occasion, things could be far, far worse.

Along with Taliesen's tittering about how fortunate his conditions were, his warnings were equally clear. The housemaster knew the Daedric lad came from some educated background, and he occasionally let slip that such awareness was unsettling. In fact, he was swift to exact discipline if he thought his pupil was becoming too boisterous. To know one's place was a fundamental, unspoken rule in the Guild that never sat well with Zevran who needed to understand the why more than the what and when and how of things.

To the housemaster's face, the young man was obedient if not a bit caged. But the truth was, Zevran was bored. It had been six months since his first errand, and since the pair returned from the tiny town of Banch, Taliesen was disinclined to give him anything other than his daily routine. A third Vantenii came and went that winter, and the brothers all seemed a bit disappointed with the product in the cushioned satchel, Zevran most of all because he was given nothing.

In his boredom, the lad spent most of his time at several key places. The Nevarran merchants, Izeek and Nabul, were always welcoming and they could easily spend an entire morning chatting and heckling the passersby. He would even run errands for them into Tern in exchange for items at their stall. The afternoons were typically with Taliesen in the back forum unless the housemaster was away or called upon by the Vancor or the Guild Master. The rest of his time was usually spent split between listening to the near constant vibrato of the Salty Brood at the local tavern, watching the courtesans pitter about on their daily affairs, casually flirting and offering to escort them if needed, or scribbling his thoughts down on stolen parchment if Taliesen happened to be away.

The housemaster hinted at grave consequences if anyone knew of Zevran's past. Apparently to be a floraesen was a distinguished trade in the Guild reserved for specific Houses. Zevran knew nothing of this when he was a child under the tutelage of the Master, and it seemed that the old man cared little for such formality. He was certainly not one to explain himself to anyone. For whatever reason, he chose to teach the lad a dark art, and he took that secret with him to the grave. The only thing that mattered now was what the lad planned to do with this gift. For years, he memorized and transcribed tomes for the old man. When the Master went blind and grew tired in the evenings, his little assistant began preparing the powders and eventually was taught to combine the components for his expecting visitors the following day. By the time the old floraesen passed away, indeed, the young man was equipped to take over in his place, had he the option.

Zevran spent many hours thinking about this. Perhaps that was the old man's intention. But because he was never formally inducted into the Guild, his skills were to remain hidden. The advantage he might have was exciting, and the lad carefully inspected the heirloom he brought with him to House Arnii. Perhaps the use of this skill could show his worth to the Guild, and then he would have something to do.

From then on, Zevran did everything in his power to ignore the warnings bequeathed by the housemaster. It started with recalling any memory of the elixirs he prepared in his final months with the Master. Most were relatively simple, and the lad would spend his evenings jotting down the ingredients he could recollect and the required techniques for a mending salve, several common sedatives, and a poison.

He needed to acquire more than notes to execute this knowledge, however. Ideally, he wanted a book to work from; one of the basic thin works that the Master would always refer to entitled 'On the Common Cuttings in the Woodlands and Deserts.' Without it, he needed to recognize the names and attributes of each herb on memory, and if all else failed, test them personally. But there was a problem with this plan – Zevran was poor. He used his rapport with the Nevarrans to source a stone mortar and pestle and kept it hidden with the antique lantern in the attic. The herbs and jars to store his products were not so easy to come by though, and he was unable to afford everything that he needed.

So the Daedric man resorted to finding what he knew he could on his own and only requested what was not immediately available with the excuse that the House needed them for some benign reason and a promise to repay the merchants when he could. Rinet was one such herb not native to Antiva but that the Nevarrans could easily find among their stock. The dried moss was common in the north and was used to preserve certain meats like a mold rind on cheese. Zevran collected mud, along with seaweed he planned to use for one of the sedatives, from the coastline. He had to wade farther into the ocean than was he comfortable with to get it, but if he went at low tide, the waves were not so rough. Fruit seeds were easy to collect and the lad would tuck what he did not eat away for later. He dried out pig bones from the tavern kitchen for bone meal along with sea salt and several jars he nicked from the cook. He even managed to wrangle a bottle of port out of Cerelus if he could last through a drinking game with Cregin. The last request took four tries and resulted in one of the worst headaches he ever felt the following day.

By spring, Zevran acquired everything he needed to produce his first set of elixirs. His chest puffed out a bit as he surveyed his stash in the attic. The loft was large and extended the length of the entire House with a shuttered window at one end looking down onto the alleyway that lead to the local tavern. The single entrance was small and had a makeshift ladder, of which he removed entirely to keep others out. Instead, he would just hoist himself up by using the stair rail on the upper landing as leverage. Much like the far back forum was Ren's space, the attic was Zevran's.

One morning early into spring, Zevran was called into Taliesen's private quarters. The housemaster had just returned from an errand the previous evening, and it was evident he was tired from the long journey. When the Daedric appeared in the doorway, he noticed his roommate sitting opposite at the makeshift desk. Glares were exchanged.

Taliesen paid no mind to their rivalry and spoke as he pondered over a parchment before him, "Come over here and sit."

Something panged in his stomach, and Zevran briefly wondered if he had been caught. For months, he was stealing small stashes of paper and using the ink and quill for his own purposes, careful to return everything he did not use to its original place. Ren puffed on a long pipe he was fond of, leaning back against the wall and eying his young comrade menacingly from the cool shady corner.

Positioning himself between them, he tentatively waited for Taliesen to speak up again. The housemaster pushed the paper aside and rubbed his eyes sleepily, "I have an errand from the Vancor."

From the many evenings querying his House brethren, Zevran was able to surmise that different groups issued certain the types of errands. The Vancor handled standard requests and commissioned them to the best bid. The requests could range from not only thefts or kidnappings, but also to act as bodyguards, escorts, or even simply to oversee a business transaction between discrete parties. Errands issued by the Guild Master, on the other hand, were tailored for a specific person or House. They could be similar errands as issued by the Vancor, but were higher profile and not always advertised for a bid.

"Have either of you heard of the Charm of E'lie?" Taliesen asked, glancing between the pair. Both housemembers shook their heads, and he returned a half smile, "Well, if Antivans must steal anything, it may as well be from Orlais, yes? The Charm of E'lie is a holy artifact carried by only the most desired members of the Orlesian Chantry. Our House has been tasked to steal it."

"Is that nigh sinful?" Zevran inquired. His cohorts chuckled.

"Well, I supposed that is for the Maker to decide," the housemaster mused. He continued with a sudden flush of enthusiasm, "The Rogue Prince has arranged a feast at the Chantry to welcome the Empress' Grand Cleric and her entourage in a fortnight time. You two must take this opportunity to locate and steal, without incident, this most cherished of items."

To steal from the Chantry. Who would ask such a thing? Zevran sat upright and peered toward his roommate for a response.

Ren pulled out the pipe, "How much does it pay?"

Taliesen mulled over the number, "About twenty Antivan after the House."

He tisked and flicked his finger toward Zevran, "You expect me to split this?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"I want fifteen of it."

"What!" The younger nearly fell over. He spat at his roommate, "If I do half the work, I get half the pay."

"_If_ you do half the work," He squinted back. "A shriveled flat-ear falls into this house, nigh knows teat from his ma, and you want me to think he has skill to offer?"

"I'm nigh useless!"

"Rich!" He jeered, "Is that why you nigh know use of a blade or an arrow? You feign courage in the forum whilst you buckle under the task."

"Buckle under the task," Zevran repeated.

"Oh, I heard," Ren turned more fully, his gaze filled with mockery, "I know how you neh asked for this."

The young man side-glanced toward Taliesen. The Shem tapped quietly on the parchment, his jaw clenched, apparently letting the pair hash out their disagreement without his input. A sense of betrayal momentarily took hold as Zevran sullenly returned to Ren, "Well, at least I nigh ran away to prove my worth!"

Ren twitched at the barb as though Zevran knocked onto a deeper hidden truth.

"Stop." A long palm reached out between the pair and slapped it on the corner of the table to get their attention. Taliesen, normally apathetic to bickering among his juniors, was not in the mood, and with a sigh and low scowl, he made his final statement to Ren, "You take half or you take nothing."

The Daelish man's brows knit together like he was just insulted. He paused before replying flatly, "I'll nigh work with this pike."

There was a long silence in the space as Ren casually stood and left, leaving behind Taliesen to steep in his frustration.

Zevran sat idle, confused and offended by his housemate's actions. If anyone else had questioned the housemaster so abruptly, he would have been quickly rebuked; yet, there was no retaliation for Ren. Another notion stuck out for him that made little sense too. He looked to Taliesen and asked, "Such a valued item, and it only fetches twenty gold? Surely, you could negotiate better terms, no?"

The housemaster pinched the bridge of his nose and snapped, "What do you know of the value of such things, ah?! Twenty Antivan is the price, and you'll be happy for it!"

Zevran felt like a chastised child. What was worse was the realization that he was being overlooked because of his past obstinacy. His childhood fantasy of the Guild vaporized the moment he left the villa steps two years prior. Perhaps to the House, all his worth amounted to that of a porter, his sole purpose to deliver parcels for the rest of his days. This notion did not sit well with him, and although the Daedric lad was unhappy with the idea of his newfound profession, he recoiled at the thought that people might consider him a coward.

As unwilling as Ren was to work with him, he liked the idea even less. Taliesen had a private word with the Daelish man later that day, and the two came to an agreement that seemed fair to them. Ren could have his bid if he gave Zevran a sharpening tool he could use. The Daedric lad wanted to vehemently stand his ground, but it was as though Taliesen expected his student to complain and swiftly informed him the discussion was over.

It was not long before the fateful evening of their task came to bear. Ren clarified that he was in charge and informed the younger that they were to meet at dusk in the back forum. Zevran was already prepared, however. It was time, he thought, to use this technique he kept in restraint. To show what he was really worth.

Silently, they headed up the Golden Mile. At night, the City streets were lined with fire. Torches set the cream plaster buildings in a warm gilded light. Even the polished, sandy cobbles glowed with a flicker like the ocean at sunrise. Ren knew of a path to the backside of the Chantry. There stood a giant stone wall separating the abbey from the Merchant district.

Without effort, the Daelish man climbed the stonework. Once at the top, he sat up on his heels and surveyed the cloister.

Zevran looked for foothold to climb. He was not as adept as his colleague. Peering up, he questioned, "What do you see?"

Ren hushed him with a forefinger in a scolding manner and continued to watch the inner wall for guards. With the Orlesians came the Chevalier. An army all their own, their notoriety spread as far as the Crows in Thedas, or so it was said. Men clad in shiny steel, the persona they emitted echoed that of the regal knights Taliesen went on about. Perhaps they rode horses too.

"Keep keen," Ren's voice picked up as he disappeared on the other side of the wall.

Perhaps he should stay behind. The thought pleased him briefly if it were not for all of the effort we went to already. He scaled the wall somewhat less gracefully and landed hard on his feet from the drop. The churchyard was empty, and the lad was met with a grassy expanse that opened out onto a forum filled with roses and pathways, stony benches and fountains. Beyond was another cream plaster barricade outlining the five white spires of the Chantry. The outer wall was lined with apple trees, their fruity branches intertwined from generations of growth. The pair's silhouettes clung behind one such tree as they made plans for their next move.

His roommate turned to him, "I want you to stay here and keep watch."

Perhaps he should have stayed on the other side. Zevran arched delicate brows down in objection, unable to fully articulate his shock, "For what! The charm is inside. You expect me to just wait for you?"

"Yes, I expect you to keep out of trouble." Ren stated bluntly, although there was no disdain in his tone. He inhaled through his teeth, peering around the tree and toward a walkway on the inner wall as he continued, "It may take me a while to find it, and I nigh need you nipping at my heels."

He said it as though he was doing the younger a favor, and Zevran knelt back chewing on his cheek in irritation. He could say what he really thought, but he knew it would only lead to a fight, and that would spoil the artfulness of their surprise. Taliesen would be angry and all his effort would be wasted. His roommate stood after a long silence, the crickets chirping happily in the spring evening with a full moon above them. Finally, he chose his approach toward the back of the churchyard.

"To your left," Zevran blurted. He could not help himself, even if it meant giving his strategy away. Now out in the open, Ren turned back, noting the guard above them walking the other way, and quizzically shook his head. The lad chastised himself under his breath and spoke again, "The best entrance is to your left. The wooden door."

Ren turned to where the lad pointed and then darted toward the inner wall until he was in shadow again. Crouching down, he eyed his brethren warily with a glint that even Zevran could see.

Zevran already knew where to enter the Chantry because he knew the layout. Two days after the deal was struck between Ren and the housemaster, the lad chose to make a personal visit to the Chantry. He told himself it was to say a prayer for luck, but what he really wanted was a clearer picture of his conquest. The Grand Hall brimmed with a soothing hum, a lengthy sermon consoling the weary traveller of peace:

_O Maker, hear my cry: _

_Guide me through the blackest nights _

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked _

_Make me to rest in the warmest places._

_- Transfigurations 12:1_

He would occasionally visit the Grand Hall when he felt lonely, always trailing the outer wall of the sanctum like he did as a child. The Hall was long and narrow, the arching ceiling were built to move sound around so that all the corners of the City could hear its echo. A series of hidden alcoves revealed themselves behind wide stone pillars along his path, each housing statues praising long dead clerics of the Antivan Order. Zevran walked by them so many times before that he started to memorize them, as he could not help but peak into the darkened shelter to see if anyone was there.

The Grand Hall was only a minor part of the Chantry though. Its footprint spread out into that of a star, each wing of which led to private and public quarters, reception halls, and service wards. At the center, connecting all of the branches like a glorious web stood a mighty rotunda. Zevran stood at the base, peering up into the morning bright light illuminating the elegant statue of Andraste through a series of stained glass windows. Her serine form was meant to offer peace to all those who gazed upon her.

Randomly, he chose an arched wooden door to his left of the Grand Hall to further explore, although he was at a loss as to what he expected to find. Surely, if there was to be a feast, the first place he should start is the kitchen. He came prepared, armed with a wrapped parcel of spices from Dockside as a delivery, should anyone ask.

"Eh, what may you?"

The second door in the corridor opened into a massive room. Intricate blue tile work arched across the walls and ceiling to culminate over a giant hearth at one end. Around the edges were lined a series of stoves and ovens. The center housed two wooden tables, one burdened with a heavy pile with various goods from the garden, while over the other cured meat hung from above. An older Daedric woman stood over a small table toward the back under a window. She was busily cutting a stack of herbs. The scent of rosemary filled the space.

"Pike, I neh have the day!" The Daedric seethed from her station, still hacking at the mound, "Tell me what you need."

Zevran was a bit caught off guard and he lurched into the kitchen, his hand outstretched, "I've come with a parcel."

She pointed with the tip of her large knife at the corner of her table. As Zevran approached, she finally looked up at him, an expression of seriousness and worry permanently etched around her eyes and mouth.

"What is this?" She demanded, poking at the linen before it was even out of the young man's hand.

"Spice, as requested."

She jerked up, "I nigh requested spice. Who is this from?"

This was a problem he had not thought about. He floundered, "The Bahne House. The kitchen suggested you might need some."

Zevran pulled the House's name from a deep childhood memory. Many merchants visited the Master over the years, and all of their homes nested around the Chantry. The cook eyed him suspiciously before looking back down at the parcel with a sardonic laugh, "And Murin thought this would be enough?"

His eyes widened. That parcel was enough to spice a month's worth of meals for an entire House, "How much do you need?"

Uninterested, she returned to her work, "I'm tending three hundred guests for the next week, so the Grand Cleric says. This neh gives me worth!"

Puzzled, the young man proposed, "I could get more."

"Oh? You could, eh?" The maid paused, her long knife easing down onto the stone cutting board. Gritting her teeth, she looked back up to Zevran as though we she might spit venom, her words and her patience only halted by a seemingly genuine offer. After a moment, she relaxed and considered the fellow, "Well, I need much more than that. The Chantry is all for prayer, none for stock after all."

He took a breath and asked, "How much?"

"About six as many of these," she pointed to the linen with her knife. "And I need it quickly!"

This was his opportunity to get involved. Perhaps then he could explore, as no one might suspect a simple Daedric servant's curiosity if he had reason to be there. His expression morphed into a brilliant smile and he nodded, "I'll see what I can do."

Perhaps the cook did not expect him to return, but Zevran visited the Nevarrans the next morning to call on yet another favor anyway. The spice was easy to come by. Everyone in the City used it, and the parcels were one of the primary exports of Tern. Each small linen was stuffed with a mixture of cloves, garlic, sea salt, and a myriad of other herbs, depending on the season, to dry meats, stock stew, and provide added flavor to sauces when needed. Still, although the parcels were simple to find, such an amount was costly. If the lad really wanted access to the Chantry, it would cost him his share of the prize.

Three days later, he returned to the kitchen. The cook was struck silent that her porter actually followed through, only noting curtly that the Maker looked well upon his donation. Zevran, quick to make use of this good will, offered to help the staff prepare in the mornings. It would be pious work to serve the Chantry on such an auspicious and rare occasion. She accepted the offer, probably because she was understaffed, and every morning thereafter, at daybreak, the lad cautiously skipped out of House Arnii and up the Golden Mile to the Merchant District.

The Chantry was vast. For every corridor he found, another set of stairs or doorway led to yet another corridor or causeway. Zevran assumed that the Chantry kept their most cherished treasures on the ground floor or in a cellar. He also assumed that the place was guarded. Yet, as he wondered between deliveries throughout the campus, he never once saw a guard. That was until several days before the feast was set, when the Orlesian Grand Cleric arrived. The entire structure came alive then with people rushing about, many of whom were simply trying to prepare the final touches. The bells rang for three days straight.

Zevran paid little attention except to spy down the Grand Hall and see if he could catch a glimpse of the Charm of E'lie. Suddenly, it seemed as though everyone in the City had just discovered Andraste's wisdom, and the Hall was packed solid with residents from Dockside to the Steps, all in their best. The morning sermon hum rang clear, and climbing onto one of his favorite statues, the lad positioned himself above the crowd. Kneeling within the central rotunda were the two Grand Clerics, hand in hand. To the right of the pair, stood a long staff, its socket housing a bright orange light. He was too far away to see the orb clearly, but the sight awed him enough.

The sermon finished and the doors flushed the Merchant District with its noontide. Zevran clung to the outer wall of the sanctum and watched where the Clerics retired before following discretely behind. Up the far corridor and to the right into a sunken passage was where he needed to go. Yet, early the following morning, the lad found himself standing tall against the door fitted with a thick, sturdy lock. Frustration nipped loudly, as he was unable to pick such things.

"Oy, you look lost."

Zevran was lost on the lock he was silently willing free. Jerking up to the accent, the lad turned to a much taller, steel-shirted man.

The Orlesian looked down at him with a bored, terse expression. Muddling over his mistake, Zevran simply asked, "What's on the other side of this door."

He could not tell if the Shem soldier was amused or irritated. Snickering, he leaned down nonchalantly and gave his order, "Leave."

Zevran got the message and slinked back to the kitchen defeated. He should have guessed it would be this way. But, in the City filled with the gold pockets of its merchants lined with the daggers of their personal assassins, it never occurred to the Daedric that a lock might be required. That was not the Antivan way of things.

For such a busy time, the kitchen was rather quiet. Rounding the corner, he caught sight of a young maid spreading meal for afternoon bread. She glanced up and the two halted in their tracks.

She gushed a smile and offered a nod, "I've seen you here before."

"Oh?" Zevran raised a brow. He would have known if he had seen her on his daily errands. Her mousy hair was tied snugly into a braid, accentuating the sharp angles of her cheeks. She was Daedric, but not the typical raven-haired variety that hid in the City's passages and terrace yards. She was young, about his age, and carried a foreign quality about her. He reached for a bowl of olives and pulled at one, "I've neh seen you. Where are you from?"

Her blue eyes brightened as she blushed. Her accent was thick, stunted, "Val Royeaux. I am here to serve her Grace a taste from home."

An Orlesian Daedric who can speak Antivan. Zevran bit his cheek from asking too many questions. He coughed, "So, you came here with all the guards?"

"The Chevalier?" She confirmed and nodded meekly, "They keep us safe."

"They look mighty dangerous, no?" He quipped.

She giggled, and he internally sighed. Something about her, an invisible aura of simplicity and humility perhaps, radiated from her in such a way that made him feel calm. The silence became awkward though, rewarding them with another round of stifled laughter.

"They may seem… cold," She explained, kneading the dough in her hands, "but they live a righteous life serving the Maker. Like family."

"Do you know them, then - the Guards with you?"

Her smile widened and she winked, "Of course. We are like kin."

He coyly mused over the dough she held and inquired, "Do you know what they're guarding then? There is a locked chamber. So odd here, you see."

The maid thought for a moment. Perhaps in Orlais, locked cupboards and guards were nothing new. Her melodic voice perked up again, "The Grace brings with her the love of the Maker. Such things must be kept safe."

"The love of the Maker," He cooed. The way she spoke sounded so romantic. "You mean the light in the Great Hall?"

She nodded, setting the dough aside to rise. Wiping her hands on her apron, she recalled it like a dream, "His love is a star that fell from Heaven. From its light his beauty pours so we may all know."

Zevran rested his refined chin on his palm and listened with rapt attention. His golden eyes squinted a little in response, "You speak as though you've seen it, yes?"

Embarrassed, she clung to herself, another blush flourishing across her face, and blinking a couple of times, she attempted to hide a grin with her petite hand. The sudden change in her demeanor had the lad standing upright, unsure if he said something rude. The maid composed herself though, looking around the empty room before she exposed the secret with a whisper, "Jacques showed me once. I was in such awe!"

He closed the distance between them to keep the disclosure quiet, feigning intrigue over such gossip, "Who is this Jacques?"

"Oh, he is a Chevalier," she simpered, almost whimsically. "He keeps it close when the Grace nigh can."

He took a step closer with flirtatious smirk, "You seem rather close to Jacques, no?"

She huffed, clenching her jaw tight at such as thought. When she realized this did not faze the Antivan, she let out a giggle and relaxed again, "He is always so kind to me. I asked, and he obliged."

Zevran tisked in thought, "Such a kind favor. You should do something for him in return, yes?"

"Such as?"

"You could give him a gift," he offered, "to show your appreciation. For his duty, of course."

She soured a bit, something Zevran did not want, "But, I nigh have such things."

He went on to suggest for her, "You could offer him a bottle of Antivan port. They are quite good here."

Even her pout was sweet to him. She pursed thin lips and admitted, "I nigh have coin. Where am I to find it?"

"I could get it for you," he countered.

She paused, unsure how to receive such a suggestion. Every exchange comes with a price of some kind. Subtly, she shook her head, "If anyone should know…"

He had to be quick. Assuredly, he quieted her, "Nigh anyone will. Gift it to him on the evening of the feast. I am sure it would be welcomed, even without his knowing, if it must be."

The thought sunk in, and the maid began to smile again, "But how shall I pay you?"

He was not going to ask for anything, for the woman was doing exactly what he wanted anyway. But then, he thought he could test his luck. He grinned confidently, biting his lower lip, "From you, I nigh dare ask. If only to see you smile … and perhaps a kiss?"

The awkward giggles returned, and the young Orlesian maid cupped Zevran's face softly. Leaning in, she tenderly kissed his cheek as a lady might have done for a suitor. This was not exactly what he asked for, but he would take it with good measure. The next day, the bottle, carefully laced with his sedative, rested in her petite hands, and the young man was rewarded with yet a second cultured peck.

He could still feel the softness of her lips on his cheek as he sat under the tree in the night. Zevran watched Ren slip through the door and it was only moments later that he took his chance to follow. The consequences be damned, he wanted to see if his plan actually worked.

The door was a side entrance to the kitchen and connected to a series of cellars and hidden corridors servants used to gain access to the eastern side of the Chantry. Ren was nowhere to be seen, and immediately, Zevran slunk into the shadows to avoid several staff returning from their tasks. He knew the path by heart and quickly maneuvered his way to the open corridor. The feast was already in full swing, music and distant chatter filling the air, creating a hum within the resonating halls all its own.

The chamber was housed within the far wing lined with living quarters. Even as the lad approach, he knew he was not far behind Ren. He had to admit, the Daelish man had a knack about finding his prize. What took him a week to sniff out took his brother barely an evening. The sunken door was still closed, but the lock was missing. Had Ren picked it or was it already undone?

Zevran cautiously pushed open the entry. The room opened up into a small foyer scant of furniture save a writing desk and chair. Another adjoining room was fitted with a small bed meant for a Chantry nun. In the center, fast asleep and with his meal unfinished on the floor, laid the guard who so unceremoniously chased the lad away the previous day.

His eyes lit up as he exclaimed, "It worked!"

Ren swiveled back in surprise at Zevran's entrance, his back now turn on the lifeless guard. However, the expression passed from astonishment to anger as he crossed the space and landed the younger squarely up against the far stone wall.

"You stupid child!" Ren barked, his left palm firmly clutching Zevran's vest, his right hand wrapped tightly around a dagger at the lad's throat. He levered the blade against his trapped victim, "What do you think you're doing?"

Caught up in shock, his breath constricted against the pressure, he answered as best he could, "The same as you, yes?"

His answer did not suffice. The Daelish man leaned in with all the menace he could muster as he spoke, referencing to the guard behind him, "And what game is this?"

"It's nigh a game!" Zevran protested, but felt the pinch of the blade.

Ren's intent was deadly. His breathing quickly calmed, but his wrist tightened on the dagger, "You will answer me, or by your Maker, you will nigh leave this room."

He snapped his eyes open and attempted to sooth his panicked state. Careful to meet his foe on equal footing, he questioned with a quirk of his brow, "Oh? I think you should let me go, else we'll nigh leave this room, friend."

Subtly, he pushed the hidden blade up and under Ren's vest and it was clear the pair was at a stalemate. It was also clear, however, by Zevran's shaking form, that Ren successfully made his point. With elegance, the Daelish man removed the dagger and let go of his brother, sauntering into back into the bedroom. Without a word, he opened his satchel, grabbed the gem within the socketed staff in the corner, and dropped it into the confines of the purse. As far as he was concerned, his job was done.

Zevran took a moment to regain his bearings. He tried to make things easier and prove some worth other than a watchdog. For all his effort, perhaps he could have done better by simply stealing the artifact on his own. After all, if he had the ability to sneak into the Chantry without arousing attention and render the guard unconscious with a well-placed bottle, what really stopped him from going farther? What a sad predicament that a silly metal latch could impede him so, he admonished.

By the time he reached the corridor, Zevran realized Ren abandoned him to find his own way out. This plan did not go as well as he had hoped.

It was not long before word of the theft spread across the City. No one saw the intruders. The only missing item was the Charm. A state of panic encased the Chantry, and all the doors for mass, usually held open to cast their hymn into the streets, were now heavily guarded for the weeks that followed. A scandal between the Clerics supposedly ensued.

Zevran was unhappy for his part, although privately he was proud that he managed to pull the heist off. Sitting in the shade at the back forum, he awaited Taliesen for practice.

"I heard about your stunt."

Zevran could guess how Ren likely retold of such a stunt to the housemaster. He managed a grin and sarcastically replied, "You missed all the fun."

But there was no smile on Taliesen's face; instead a mask of concern returned down to him. The housemaster spoke plainly, hushed, "You must stop with this."

He straightened himself against the wall in surprise, "Stop what?"

"So, you play around with herbs. You think it brings worth?"

Zevran grimaced, "It got you what you wanted, no? It's nigh nothing."

Taliesen leaned over, "You take too much risk."

"Nigh anyone saw me!"

"How do you know that?" Teliesen's response was flat and quick, "It would have been easier to simply kill him."

"There was nigh need to kill him," He responded from the floor.

The housemaster was caught by such a self-confident response, and his voice rose slightly in irritation, "You nigh have choice!"

"Oh?" He shot back, eyes widening, "But I do have choice."

"If the Guild tells you to kill someone, you do it! You do it quietly, and you do it right!"

"But I was nigh tasked with a mark! I was asked to steal a rock – without incident – which I assume means nigh a soul knows of it, dead or alive!" He felt his cheeks redden as though he were against the wall again, this time staring down his housemaster instead of his nemesis. His voice echoed into the forum, "Now that is what I did, and I did it the way I wanted. That is what you espouse, no? All this talk of the Arnii way!"

He was struck silent, studying his youth's outburst with a mixture of disappointment and uncertainty. Slowly, he came to with more conviction in his words, "Your game is a dangerous one, Zev. Mark me, nigh a soul can know this came from the House of Arnii."

This was certainly not the response he predicted. For days thereafter, the interactions between Taliesen and Zevran were short and curt. Daily lessons were of instruction with little banter he had become so accustomed to. The young man had to wonder why his actions would set off the housemaster so. Was it his disobedience or something else? The theft went perfectly in his mind, and this alone gave him solace to continue despite such objections.

As unsupportive as the housemaster was, the Salty Brood did not seem so discouraged. Cerelus was the first to pull the Daedric aside at the tavern.

"A bird sang you had a hand in the little clash at the Chantry," He chittered with a cup of mead as a reward for his golden boy.

Velnas leaned over the table to form a huddle, "How did you do it?"

They were alone, but the attention was still enough to embarrass the young man. Zevran smirked a bit at the memory, "A lovely girl and a bottle of port."

"Ah, that's why you wanted the port?" The older Shem questioned.

He nodded, although he deliberately omitted the critical ingredient to his success.

"So you are sly, is that it?" The other fellow complimented, "Keep such games up, you'll make a secret of yourself, friend."

To make a secret of oneself was considered more dangerous than outright bragging a tall tale. After all, spun yarns were everywhere, and humble men were few alive to tell. Zevran sat back against the wall and lingered on the honey aroma in his cup, his colleagues filling the gap with fables all their own.

"It could have been easier, though, I must admit," the lad murmured after a while. He eyed Cerelus and perked up, "You were a prison guard, yes? What do you know about locks?"

Cerelus paused over his mug and chuckled. The white scruff around his mouth bristled in coincidence with the wrinkles around his eyes as he shifted back and forth between Velnas and the younger convert. He took a swig and then spoke, "Silly contraptions, but they have uses."

"Do you know how to pick them?"

Velnas tilted his cup knowingly, "He nigh would be a good thief if he failed at such, no?"

The older man leaned back to stretch, "You get to my age, you realize they are all just brief barriers."

"Yes," suddenly, Zevran was focused on his goal, "and what bribe could I offer you to teach me such a skill?"

The table fell silent, both comrades mulling over the question as though it was a private conversation between them. A sense in the lad's gut told him that perhaps he made too direct a request from nowhere, but he remained calm. What could he expect if he never asked?

Cerelus was not an unreasonable man. In fact, out of everyone in the House, he was the most laid back about his profession. This was his retirement, he would claim, as he idly reclined to listen to the masculine rabble at the tavern each evening. His only goals in life were to have a good drink, fondle a pretty lady, and perhaps walk the City if the errand suited. Two of those goals were out of his control, thus Zevran assumed the bribe consisted of a fine beverage.

"A bottle of brandy," his suspicions were confirmed.

So it was then that the lad was sent on his two-year journey to find the mythical bottle. Cerelus held to his word though, even offering to show him tips and tricks long before Zevran was expected to pay. And the agreement was to stay between them. After all, it served no one to share trade secrets with the entire House; else the whole of Dockside would have a hand in it!

Weeks passed and eventually Taliesen eased up on the cold shoulder. In truth, he could not stay angry with his student for long, and slowly casual chitchat resumed by the well. By mid-spring, all ill feelings were mended with the prospect of a new errand.

There was no wooden medallion to accompany the request though. Taliesen conceded, "This is a personal errand from the Guild Master."

Zevran had long gaged that Taliesen and the Guild Master knew each other on a more private level. As the housemaster, he must have some higher duty to uphold, after all. He nodded, "What kind of errand?"

He smiled warmly, picking at the stonework on the well as he spoke, "We are off to the House of Stil. The Hounds are in need of corralling."

The Hounds? Zevran pulled at the name in his mind until he could recall where he last heard of the House. Stil was a House from Tern that often gathered at the tavern alongside them. They were a surly bunch, and it was many months before any of the Salty Brood would bother to explain why.

"A member there and I need to have a conversation." He said the last word with a bit of thought before continuing, "But that is rather ill advised with the entire pack at his back. So, you will serve as my distraction."

Zevran pondered, "And how do you suppose I distract them?"

"Easy!" He exclaimed, clasping his hands with a smile, "You simply walk into their forum. Tell them you are looking for a lesson or some such, and if you really long for an effect, tell them I sent you."

It seemed rather straightforward. Still, even Zevran, in all his inexperience, knew walking into a rival house's forum without invitation was tantamount to trespassing. Despite the brotherly nature of the Guild, the Houses were not all so cordial with each other, viewing their members as potential contenders for the same fare. Tern, in particular, had a reputation for bitter turf wars.

As he approached the long wall to the back entry, nodding to the housemaster as they parted ways up the alley, a knot grew in his stomach. Stil was a House of Hounds. Zevran found the notion quite bemusing, figuring a flock some other bird of prey or a den of snakes a much better description for the division of the Guild that retained its deadliest members. Referring to them like a pack of dogs was derogatory, every Antivan knew it.

But, perhaps it was also appropriate. After all, the Hounds were little more than a pack of dogs. From a tender age, homeless boys and orphans were taken off the street and into the care of these dens. And there, as rumor had it, they learned to survive. To the public, it was a way of containing the poor from a life of destitution on the streets. Antiva was a port city and all manner of strays landed on its docks. Where Nevarra and Tevinter were home to indentured servitude and slavery, the people of Antiva were not so fond of such notions, at least not visibly. Every life had value; it was the Antivan way to put it to good use.

In reality though, what the Merchant Princes were really building was an army. And if the Guild Masters were their generals, then the Hounds were their infantry. The men these boys grew into were single minded, loyal and above all, deadly. They were the silent watchers, the ground beneath the street. And should any of the Guild Masters become angry, the Hounds were the first they released.

Master Naheeme only once mentioned the Hounds. Called them as such. He never worked directly with them though, so Zevran guessed none such guests ever graced the villa steps. The young man gulped suddenly at the memory, and a cold realization flowed down his spine that had the old man not gone to the brothel deep in the heart of the City, had he not looked down his long, aged bridge and into little golden eyes, that a den like this could very well have become his home.

A wide wooden back gate was slightly ajar, and his only indication he was at the right place was a faded red flag hung to one side. On the banner were three long, white marks hugging each other like a wave. The day was bright. Zevran tentatively opened the gate and peeked into the forum. It was little different than his House forum; a low shaded patio surrounded a large space with a well in the center.

There was a lone man sitting by the well sharpening a knife. The image struck familiar to him as the lad rubbed a finger over the hilt of his own dagger for courage. The man looked up and stopped. The pair stared awkwardly for a few moments in silence.

"Oy, a nun visits the Chantry."

Zevran nudged to his right, noticing a tall Shem leaning against the wall not far from him. He was a slim man, as most Hounds were. Slender and sly, they gifted the impression that they were always at attention, no matter how casual the advance. Perhaps it was the illusion of hunger that drove them.

Zevran shrugged, gesturing politely around the forum, "A spiritual pilgrimage."

The Shem remained where he was, allowing a chuckle to escape as he drawled, "I've seen you before."

"Eh, I'm common enough," he remarked. "Been porter in Tern for near two years, I would say."

"At the Tavern," the Shem adjusted himself on the wall, wheedling something between his front teeth, "You're a convert from Arnii."

"A bit young to be a convert, yes?" The man at the well added as he purposefully raked the soapstone across his knife.

"Aye," he nodded, "I bet the pups have seen more than he has."

His statement was like a cue and Zevran looked up to the first floor windows to see a half dozen pair of youthful eyes watching from above with interest. All of their heads were shaved, their expressions the same like a row of siblings despite their apparent differences in parentage.

"We could give them some practice," The Shem pondered, looking over to his comrade by the well, but then shook his head before returning to the intruder, "Likely nigh worth it, no?"

His friend acknowledged him, "That's Taliesen's favorite."

"Oh I know," His eye contact was assured, the Shem smiled, "His protégé, I hear."

Zevran blinked. Taliesen was a known sword hand. He once explained that the Vintolli House, like the Guidain House, specialized in certain skills, and his father happened to be highly regarded. To have a recognized talent demanded respect, and it was possible that reason alone was why he was housemaster at all.

The Shem pushed himself off the wall, a sinister quality in his gate. He was casual in his attire, no protection other than a simple vest and tunic tucked into leather trousers. He appeared unarmed, but Zevran knew better. He stopped a little more than arms length from the lad, studying the smaller fellow before offering, "Perhaps you could show off what you've learned from your master."

Was this not supposed to work the other way around? It was a lesson he was tasked to seek as a distraction for his brother. Yet this option seemed comparable enough as the lad tentative acquiesced to the pair. Still, this was no sparring match Zevran walked into. As the other Shem lifted himself from the well, the curve of the blade he held glinted off the mid-day sun, a warning of how poorly this so-called lesson could play out.

Without warning, the pair was on him, one at his front and the other at his side. He expected the blade to come and neatly blocked the upward arc, but was kicked to the side by the other foe. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet in a crouched position, scanning the pair in their relaxed poses. It jarred the lad to see how coolly they regarded him, never glancing at each other before moving toward him in sync. Zevran remained where he was until the last safe moment, jabbing his dagger down onto the boot to his right while punching the knee to his left. He heard the blade drop, but realized too late that the boot he intended to stab shifted out of the way, the sole landing him hard in the face instead. Knocked back, it was all he could do to grab the better weapon and retreat to a safe distance again.

There was only one of the pair standing now, the other smoothly backing against the well again, cradling his knee gently. The Shem who first addressed him hummed appreciatively from above, "Interesting."

There was the starting of an audience in the forum. Zevran could feel his cheek burn and the blood dip down his nose, but it did not stop him from concentrating on the collected man in front of him. He seemed to be waiting, unwilling to make the first move. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

He felt before he heard a sound behind him, and just as the lad turned to find a new challenger mounting an attack, a sharp shock hit his back. Skittering so that both men now faced him, Zevran viciously swung the blade back, narrowly missing the first Shem, and kicked as hard as he could at his chest. The effort shoved the man back enough so the lad could again defend himself against the downward arc of a sword. The clash of the metal was deafening as he deflected once and then a second and then third time before realizing he was being backed into a corner of the forum.

He was out numbered and out matched. All Zevran's senses told him that his distraction was over and he needed to leave. The gate was now on the other side of him, and to chance it he would have to move between the men. Menacingly, he swung wide, causing the pair to lean back and giving him enough room to slide on the gravel and beeline to the reddened wooden gate.

Another contender swooped in from the side in an attempt to block his exit, and Zevran raised his weapon enough to strike hard on the impending clash. It was not until he was nearly there that he realized the figure blocking the door was actually a boy, one of the children spying down on him from the window. He was Shem too, but no more than eight years of age, his small stature not yet grown into the clothing he was wearing or the stance he held as he evenly waited for the Daedric to slow his approach. Blue eyes and gaunt cheeks were pale in the sunlight, and a small grin played on the child as Zevran relaxed his grip on the blade.

The boy swung across his chest and a spray of sand from his hand flung straight into the Daedric's face. Stunned, Zevran cried out, dropping his weapon in effort to cover his eyes, and then as the burning sensation sunk in, began wiping frantically to clear his vision. Defenseless, distracted, he was yanked to ground by unseen hands, his cheek ground into the gravel by a leather-covered knee, his flailing arms twisted painfully until he yielded, screaming for them to stop.

He could hear the Shem above him, his voice unruffled and deeper than he expected, "Taliesen did warn you, I hope. You would nigh have survived his place, I think."

His could feel the surge of his heartbeat, the thuds becoming more rapid as the man adjusted his knee and flicked a small dagger over the tip of the lad's ear. He spoke nonchalantly, "I wonder, what is so special about you. I mean, is it nigh odd for the House of Arnii to convert one without skill?"

There was nothing he could say. He was trapped.

"That was nigh his right to decide your fate." There was knowledge in his words, the Shem's hands now busy cutting away at his vest and shirt. Zevran's vision was starting to return and he was widely raking around with the one eye above the gravelwork, renewed reason to struggle free. He saw the boy sitting at his side, his head rotated sideways to see the Daedric's face more clearly. Was it fear the child was looking for?

"Perhaps this will act as a reminder of who you really are, should our paths cross again."

The pain was searing as the blade cut deep. It felt like the brand, although there was no fire and the sting lasted much longer than the lead-tipped iron that touched his shoulder so long ago. A slow swipe crept the length of his back, followed by a second and then by a third. His entire left side felt laid open when the final mark punctured his side. Four marks. Three claws.

The knee released his chokehold and his arms were suddenly free. Gulping in air, the lad could barely make an audible noise the pain was so intense.

The warning was clear as the Shem took to cleaning his knife with the remnants of Zevran's shirt, "I will give you a head start because I pity you. If I catch you here again, I promise you will nigh be so lucky."

It took all his will to make it back to the assigned meeting spot Taliesen suggested, but there was no one there when he arrived. The lad considered waiting, but the each step was agony and he was leaving a crimson path for others to follow. In his shock, anger was seeping in to fill his already bruised ego and aching backside. The man spoke of conversations he was not privy to; a scene amongst the select few who had power over him. The housemaster must have known. Was it not Taliesen himself who echoed how fortunate his circumstances were?

It took so much longer to make it back to the House. Most of the Salty Brood was already at the tavern for early supper, so he was blessed to be alone. Creeping into the attic was nearly impossible as the skin parted and stretched. Shaking, the lad dug into his crate for cloth and rinet. Carnassi. Anything to calm the pain. The cuts deeply raked the length from his shoulder to the small of his back, and it was at that moment Zevran realized he lacked the skill to handle this kind of injury as well.

"Zev?" He heard the housemaster call anxiously from below. Taliesen was standing at the opening of the attic, no doubt following the trail.

He pulled himself across the floorboards to peer down from a corner. To Taliesen, his skin had gone icy pale with sweat, his light hair damp against his face shrouding a sense of distrust in his narrow, sharp eyes. Dried blood and dust covered his mouth and chin. He gave the impression of a trapped animal.

"Let me see it."

"No!" Zevran jerked back.

"I need to see your injury," he demanded lowly at first and then subtly lightened the tone, "I must know who to take you to."

He was unsure if he could climb down. Tossing his tools to the ground below without care, the lad took a deep breath as he gingerly levered himself over the opening. The pressure on his left side was too great, though; his arm gave way before he was ready, causing him to fall with thud. His knee buckled in a newfound pain and the lad groaned, his forehead pressed against the rough wooden floor.

There was silence, and then hushed, the housemaster took his student by the shoulders and guided him down the stairs. Grabbing a thin cloak from his quarters, he flung it loosely around the Daedric and lead the pair out the door into the busy evening street. They passed up narrow alleyways, urgency in their step, and Zevran realized he did not recognize where he was. Suddenly before a small courtyard, Taliesen knocked on the door, and a young woman answered within mere moments. She looked at Zevran, and he recognized her.

They were at the Courtesans. The woman leaned back in to speak to someone and then opened the door fully to usher both inside. They were in the kitchen but soon left for a long hallway to a set of stairs. Rounding the landing, they entered a large side room with an ornate lounge and on suite boudoir.

"Bring him over here," Nell presented herself near the fire, her bosom on full display in a tight bodice as she motioned to Taliesen with concern, "Let me see him."

He obeyed wordlessly and removed the cloak. Zevran's breath hitched, his eyes widening as the woman stroked a gentle finger along his left side.

"Get Lani," He heard her say. She touched his chin and turned him to face her. Nell had large, brown eyes that reminded him of quail feathers. Her lips were pursed into a grimace, pulling at the fine wrinkles around her mouth. She had an expression of pure worry, talking to the lad with consoling tones, "Come, you should lie down. Lani is an exceptional cleric. She will know what to do."

Using the cloak as a cover, she smoothed out the duvet on the bed and had Zevran lay stomach down, his back exposed to the firelight. The softness of the feather mattress nearly pulled him into an immediate slumber, were it not for the muted conversation beyond. There were strong hints of anger coming from Taliesen's voice, although he could not make out what he was saying.

He thought he closed his eyes for only a moment, but time passed differently. When Zevran opened them again, there was a woman wiping a wet cloth against his cheek, her dark locks pinned back loosely to avoid flowing over him. His clothing was removed and a light blanket covered him from the waist down. Light was struggling free against the red currents at the window, and he realized that it was the next day.

The woman paused, a smile dividing her long features, "You are awake."

His throat felt dry and the lad attempted roll onto his side before she stopped him.

"Nigh, nigh," she gently chided, her hands rotating his shoulders back against the duvet. Zevran's cheek rested on a soft pillow, so he reached to grip it instead. Her smile intensified and she brought a cup of water to him, "You are looking better. I imagine a good sleep served as well as any healer, yes?"

He could hear boots on wood and another presence filled his peripheral vision. He knew who it was before the comment registered, "You are a heavenly seamstress, Lani."

She hummed, "The marks are very deep, but nigh too deep. He should rest until the wounds have properly closed."

Taliesen clucked softly, "They will make fine story when they are mended."

Bitterness rose in his throat. Suddenly all of the previous day came rushing back to him, and the lad could not help but scowl back at the housemaster. Taliesen looked weary, a wry smile concealing any real concern behind his eyes.

"You did this on purpose," Zevran pinned his words like daggers.

His smile disappeared, and Zevran realized he was right. Perhaps there was never a conversation to be had with this hound Taliesen sought. Perhaps the 'conversation' all along was his display in the forum.

The housemaster nodded to Lani and took her place at the bedside. He spoke slowly, sincerely, "I nigh thought it would be like this."

Zevran squinted fiercely, betrayal pecking at him, "Were you watching?"

"No!" Taliesen avowed, offended, "I had my errand to keep."

The lad turned his head in disgust, no longer desiring to talk. His back was numb and cold. He wondered what Lani did to quell the pain so effectively.

There was a long silence between them before Taliesen spoke again, "Be angry with me if you like, but it nigh changes anything. You are still here."

"Yes," the scorn thick on the pillow, "and things could be far, far worse."

The cloth landed by his head with a wet thump, and the lad was alone again.

Mercifully, he stayed at the Courtesans' House for several days until Lani felt his wounds had sufficiently started to mend. Slowly, she removed the many, many lines of thread from his backside, dropping them into a bowl of water. Sinette came to his side and spent her time whispering sweet nothings into his freshly washed hair when the sting became too harsh with the tug of each thread. Between the two women, Zevran was lulled into a relaxed state considering the severity of his injury. A thick poultice was placed over each cut when she was finished, and he was wrapped in pale linen to keep the wounds from festering. Lani issued an order to return to her each day to dress it until she said otherwise. Such personalized attention was bizarre to the lad, and he found himself longing for it despite the pain he no doubt suffered from each visit. Sinette never failed to give him a lingering kiss on the way out the door.

The Hounds knew what they were doing. The Shem that cut him did so to open as much skin as possible without actually damaging the muscle. Within a fortnight, he could pick up a blade without wincing too terribly at the stretch of the tight scars. He spent much of his time practicing since his return to the House, refusing to leave the confines of the forum to run his normal errands. And Taliesen let him be that way, at least for a little while.

Their sparring would pick back up again; they both knew it. But something had changed in Zevran, and their candor with each other was off balance. The lad did not give a verbal response as the housemaster greeted him happily with the wooden sticks, tossing the younger man's pair lithely. Taliesen was not one to be bruised by such a cold response though, choosing instead to get on with the task at hand.

They began their trained dance. The housemaster knew all of Zevran's weaknesses by heart, and it was his job to test them every session until his student corrected his mistakes. But whether it was fear of being tapped on his injured side, or finally recognizing the problem in his stance, the lad moved faster than he normally did. The upper cut of the stick was unexpected, and Taliesen felt the harsh sting of a fist come crashing onto his cheek.

He fell to the ground, letting his stick fly away. Stars flashed before his eyes, and Taliesen peered up to see Zevran stalking way, his line of sight heatedly cast onto his housemaster.

Taliesen chuckled a little, wiping blood from his nose, "I see you are still angry at me."

His student said nothing, returning a glare.

"Well, good. Stay angry at me," he flashed a smirk as a way of congratulating him. "Let it help you the next time you are in need of it."

Zevran's eyes sparked suddenly, his grip loosening on the wood. It became clear then what this lesson was really about, and the notion made him even less happy. Dropping his tools deliberately, he nearly spat onto the dusty floor, submitting instead to simply walk away. It would be summer before the pair sparred again.

The outward fury would eventually subside, but the lad found it difficult to bring out his usual banter around the Salty Brood. The rest of group immediately heard of what happened, offering stories of their own encounters with the various dens across the City. The Hounds were not to be trifled with, even by another Crow.

"I'll kill him if he touches me again," The words were barely perceptible, but they were there and their intent was real.

Cerelus leaned back from the rabble at the table and observed his smaller brother. Zevran's childish features were hardened, his teeth clenched. He held a practiced pose against the bench wall as he stared beyond their group to the table where Stil housemembers often congregated. The older Shem glanced over to a pair of rough men smiling their way and then back at the Daedric lad. Subtly, he prodded him.

"Here, having something stronger," Cerelus pushed over a flask in an attempt to redirect the younger's attention. "You have the rest of your life to harbor such hatred. You are too young to savor it now."

The summer heat was again on the City too early. It seemed every year was getting warmer sooner than expected, and the House eagerly cast its shutters out to the bay's salty breeze.

Zevran was called to Taliesen's quarters. He did everything in his power to avoid the Shem now, but he still had to acquiesce to the demands on the House. He stood in the doorway watching as the housemaster labored over a pile of letters; no doubt they were the bids for the following season.

"Come over here and sit," Taliesen was quiet. He was always quiet when he wrote.

Obeying, Zevran sighed and waited for whatever he was called here for. A long lingering moment passed, and peeking toward the makeshift desk, he could not help but read the delicate scrawl on the parchment.

"Hold," came the warning, but it was too late. Zevran read the first and the second of the letters he managed to nab. A sneer formed on his delicate chin, and he let out a snort. Taliesen frowned, "What."

He motioned to the letter, "The bid is too low."

"Feh, and you know of such how?"

"Ned, at the tavern nigh two days ago, bragged at how he took this same kind of errand from the Vancor for a far better rate." Zevran pointed at the parchment, surprised by the lack of reaction from his housemaster. He pulled at another letter on the table, "And this! You need at least Velnas and Borne to accomplish such a task, yet you offer to pay only one, less expenses."

Taliesen, snatched the paper back and demanded, "You talk like you know about negotiating."

"I am Antivan! We all know negotiation!" He countered, "It is you who seem to lack its favor."

The insult sunk deep, and the housemaster fumed over the stack before him, "You think this is simple? I have thirty men in my care. Thirty men who require to be fed, housed, maintained, and worked. You tell me what I should do!"

"Pay them what they're due," He said flatly.

"Pay them what they're due?" He questioned, nearly aghast at lad's audacity, "I have to compete against near fifteen Houses under Gynn alone!"

"So less is more?"

"It catches the errand!"

"It catches few errands if you truly believe your men are worth less!"

The housemaster paused. One of the first lessons the Master instilled in the lad at a young age was that an Antivan always paid what they thought the item was worth. That was the art of negotiation – neither party necessarily believed the worth of the purchase was the same. Cheap fair likely meant cheap goods, and there was a fine line between a good deal and a poor choice.

"Your men are hungry and bored," Zevran spoke in an authoritative way the housemaster never met from him before. It made his youthfulness all the more surreal, "If you truly believe their value so little, then you should nigh expect such in return, no?"

Zevran could tell Taliesen wanted to argue, but chose to study the letter in his hand again. What the lad said was true, although he would be at a loss now to explain why he felt the need to express it. Perhaps it was because he was bored. And angry. And hungry. Months of observation of the Salty Brood suggested he was not alone, and if the terms of their conditions could be improved by better management, who was he to stay silent.

The housemaster handed him the letter, scrutiny edging his response, "And what of this? What would _you_ pay for it?"

Zevran glanced at the paper, reading the contents quickly. It was a mark from the Vancor on a hound. The man abandoned his post and disappeared into the woodlands near Rivaine. Such a crime was punishable by death, or so it was said. The fact the mark was a hound made it worse and called for a harsher response. To be an example for others who thought they could so easily sidestep the system.

"Eighty Antivan, minimum."

Taliesen's eyes shot open, "That's near twice what I bid!"

"Yes, eighty Antivan," He answered. "One third to the Vancor, the rest split between the Guild, the House and the one called to carry it. Seventeen for both House and brother instead of eight. Think about what we could do with such coffers! We could hire our cook again!"

"And if we nigh get the errand?" He questioned heatedly.

"Then you will neh know," He understood by now how it worked. Once the bids were entered, no one outside the confines of the sceptered walls was privy to the decision. Zevran finished almost casually, "The poor man neh asks."

Taliesen's hand twitched over the parchment, his expression unsure. But the insistence of his student and conviction in his words stirred him to set his hand to the letter. Slowly, the number formed and he allowed the ink to dry, looking toward his friend and relaxing when the Daedric's face finally eased into a satisfied nod.

The Vantenni came and went, and another meeting with all of the brethren of House Arnii was to be had. Surprisingly, the satchel was full, fuller than it had been the previous winter, and Taliesen took to his rehearsed monologue with renewed vigor before supplying the tokens. Zevran watched from his corner of the fire pit half hoping something might be in the plush purse for him.

Alas, it was not to be his day.

Sitting in the back forum the following week, the lad had taken to a lock box Cerelus gave him to practice with a novice set of tools. The metal picks were poor and thoroughly weathered before falling into his nimble hands. After a dozen or so attempts, he placed the box on the ground, tossing the tools to the side, and rubbed his temples in frustration. He could feel the housemaster approach, causing him to rub his temples harder.

"Here."

Zevran looked up to an outstretched hand presenting a stained, wooden box. He shifted up to see Taliesen's expression, expectant and patient. He was chewing on his favorite grass.

"What is it?"

"Open it." He motioned with his hand.

He took the box cautiously, a silence hanging between them. Popping the lid off, Zevran's eyes widened.

"This stays between us," the housemaster advised as he turned back to house. The lad could not help the confused gesture as he plucked out the quill above a thick stack of paper accompanying a bottle of ink. The items were used, but clean and artfully prepared in the antique container. Was this a way to thank him or ask forgiveness? Perhaps it was Taliesen's subtle manner of asking the lad to stop poaching his supply. In any case, he dared not inquire, and Zevran quietly tucked the items behind his back against the wall for the crate later.

With the early summer came the monsoon. Blessedly, Zevran's boredom was alleviated by several simple errands across the City. They were lowly tasks that no one else in the House really wanted to take on, but it was better than nothing and near effortless for him to follow through. In fact, they were made for someone of his ilk. He was tasked first to spy on a Merchant household and return with the required information, which was simple enough because he knew the layout of most homes in the district, having escorted the Master over the years. The latter errand required him to test his lockpicking skills, still clumsy and immature from his early efforts with the lockbox in the forum. A certain degree of stealth was also required, which came more naturally as his lithe form could easily trace the rooftops at night, easing himself down onto a terrace to skulk into an unguarded window. Memories of his childhood crept back of the evenings he spent on the rooftop terrace at the villa, climbing the vines, pretending they were great trees of the Daelish Wood. For the briefest moment, the stolen space felt like home.

Taliesen was impressed by the speediness of his student's results, deciding to reserve this sort of errand to him again should the opportunity come up. Zevran was small and quiet when not the center of attention at the tavern. The lad had a way with telling a tale that even the Salty Brood could not ignore. Taliesen guessed it must have been from all the books he read from his life before landing in House Arnii. What was important was that the Daedric appeared unassuming, a clear advantage among his brethren, even Ren. Certainly, if trained properly, he would make a great assassin. The housemaster went as far to mention such in one of their sparring sessions, musing that he should not let youthful eagerness get in the way of a good mark, whether it was an object or person. Zevran's failing was that he had a tendency, perhaps because his cleverness, of getting ahead of himself, and that was where he made errors. And if the older Shem could make this assessment in the forum, he was likely to repeat it on the road.

One day, Taliesen chose to take Zevran with him to the Guild Master. He needed to report on the result of an errand and thought this would be a good opportunity for the young man to observe the inner workings of his occupation.

Zevran followed civilly, unsure why he was involved at all. Gynn de Payne made him feel uneasy, like a hawk surveying its prey before diving in for the kill. He held too much control that the lad had little ability to leverage, and the thought made his every move and statement nervous. Perhaps that was the way of the Guild and its Masters. The anxious reactions by their lessers elicited a sense of entitlement. That thought alone brought forth a bitterness the young Daedric did not know he possessed.

They would sit and talk casually at first before getting to business, the lad ignored in the background. Surprised he was not banished entirely, Zevran leaned on one of the stone columns and watched the City below. The rainy season was upon them, and from this vantage he could see a huge storm building off the coast, ready to sweep into the bay with a wall of fishy mist.

"So you think sending him would be better."

"Naivety is what she adores, no?" Taliesen mused, "Who else in the Guild could manage such with sincerity?"

Gynn chuckled, "And are you willing to lose your protégé if he fails?"

Zevran straightened and turned to the pair. Taliesen held a confident smile, amused by such a question. He conceded, "It is risk. But all great things come with risk, yes?"

The guild master glanced to the lad and then returned to the housemaster. Taking a breath, he leaned back in his chair, "I will ponder it. We are done."

The walk back was in silence. The sun was setting behind them and the downward gradient transitioned from the pristine plaster and cobble into a dingy, sootier version. By the time the pair made it to the tavern, Zevran could no longer hold his curiosity.

"What was that about?"

Taliesen stopped himself from opening the door and pulled Zevran by the shoulder into an adjoining alley. He spoke in a low tone, but was not harsh to the lad, "Neh discuss such in the open. I will tell you later, if the errand is ours."

His answer would come to him two days later during a break in the back forum. Both were out of breath, and the build up of the humidity felt like they were swimming in their own sweat. The housemaster removed his tunic and hung himself over the side of well in effort to take in any breeze. The lad managed to knock him off his feet twice that day.

"I think you might be ready," he muttered into the well.

Zevran sought shade instead and sat against the far wall. The sentence could barely be heard, but he caught it, "Ready for what?"

After a moment, the Shem pulled himself from the stonework and began retrieving the bucket with water. He returned to the shade and offered a cup before answering, "For your first real test."

Zevran's gut jumped at the response, but Taliesen was already beyond the significance of the statement and pushed on with a proud smile, "Gynn gave us the errand."

"I suppose this is mark," He suggested.

"Aye," he nodded through his cup. The water felt like ice down his throat. The housemaster elaborated, "A very important mark on a magister."

A mage? Zevran never met a mage before, at least not knowingly. Antiva was seemingly devoid of them despite the ubiquitous nature of magic throughout Thedas. Instead, mages took the Quintas Road on to Tavinter, where they could learn their trade in the open, away from the confining hands of the Chantry. He once heard there was a treaty between the Imperium and Antiva, although he was unsure how his kingdom benefited from such favors.

"We are going to the Imperium then?"

"No, no!" Taliesen waved his free hand, "She is in Antiva, and we must catch her before she flees our borders."

"A woman!" Zevran balked. It was one thing to mark a man, another entirely to kill a woman.

The housemaster nodded again, formulating a plan behind the glint in his blue eyes, "We are going to intercept her, and you are going to fool her into believing nothing is untoward before taking her down."

"Why?" He demanded more than asked.

Taliesen snapped his mouth shut in effort to keep from chastising him. The young Daedric man always asked why as though it had any relevance to the task at hand. The Shem smiled, "Because, my dear friend, she has angered the wrong person. That is all you need to know, yes?"

The housemaster seemed more than happy with the arrangement, and the lad realized he had little choice than shadow him. The next day, they were prepared and followed the northwesterly path out of the City. The plains were cooler than the coast and both men relished in the strong breeze sweeping the fields. Goat herders ushered their flocks ever onward like nomadic tribes save small villages lining the Quintas Road. Zevran remembered this place, a sense of dread encasing him as they approached and then passed the outskirts of the Daelish Wood.

Night was on them when the pair arrived at a junction in the road. They travelled for a month by then, taking rest in the wilderness most of the time and only wondering into a village to barter for supplies. Zevran was left behind to watch their belongings after the second attempt with the townsfolk failed; it was a distinct parallel to his traverse up the plains nearly ten years prior. How did any Daedric or Daelish survive up here, he wondered. Perhaps that was what drove them into the Wood in the first place.

They approached a berm overlooking the offshoot headed due north from the main road. Far ahead, they could see a dim lantern hooked to a cart.

"That must be it," Taliesen murmured, concentrated on the distant object.

"Surely she is nigh alone," Zevran said skeptically.

"She may be, I'd nigh doubt," He turned and emphasized. "You need to tread carefully now, lest she deceives you. Mages are odd creatures."

"Me – you mean I'm alone?" His eyes widened in the dark. Flashes back to the tiny town of Banch pushed to the front of his mind.

Taliesen nodded, "I am simply here to ensure you finish what you start."

Zevran hesitated but queried anyway, "and if I nigh finish?"

There was a pause. The lad could make out the housemaster's terse expression even in the evening light; he was mulling over his response. His voice sounded strange, almost remorseful in its seriousness, "If you nigh finish, you nigh return, my friend."

So this was the test he spoke of. What use was the lad if he could not follow through? The Crows were not known thieves after all, despite the wide variety of roles they actually played in the City. He felt the solid pat on his back above the impression marking House Arnii, Taliesen's advice ringing clear.

"If you are caught, you nigh can take what she says as truth. I hear she is a master of coercion, and she will use anything to spare her life, including yours. Finish this quickly, and meet me at the Tundles in Sphene."

Zevran acknowledged his words, before jerking up to his housemaster's trailing shadow, "Wait! What's her name?"

The dark figure lingered, "Lady Blaine of the Acundum."

He was alone. The crickets were chirping loudly, and the lad remained in his spot observing the surroundings before him for what felt like hours. The road dissected a field to the left and a dark thicket to the right. The fields provided the foreground to foothills of grand mountains beyond. The border of Tavinter was within reach.

Slowly he picked himself up, walking almost casually along the cobbled road toward the dim distant light. The lantern was like a signal and it struck him odd. Why would a woman travel alone? Surely she must know she is marked. Taliesen said she was running to the Imperium presumably where the Crows held less power, or desire, to catch her. Perhaps it was a trap, and the notion forced the lad to clutch his dagger for resolve. He was not prepared to have a fight with guards, should he find any.

The cart was simple and round. The exterior reminded Zevran of the gypsy carts in Tern. Many roaming tribes migrated from Rivaine and found temporary status in Dockside during the spring before they continued their trek to the Free Marches. It was a biannual migration, and the same tribes found themselves back in Tern the following fall. The wood paint was dark and extravagant, mixing purple, deep reds and greens from the little light shown to him. The lad approached the lantern, and very carefully lifted himself over the opening to blow the fire out.

Alone in the dark, Zevran listened closely for any signed of movement. There were two openings, one on the side and other to the front where a horse was loaded, calmly chewing straw dropped for it. In either case, he could not imagine a scenario where he could sneak up on someone inside.

He heard a whisper and stopped dead in his tracks. Peering around, he could not see anyone from the darkness of the woodlands. The lad slunk into the shadow of the cart and waited. Again a whisper reached his ears as though the voice was uttered right next to him, and he startled enough to lurch out of place.

The third whisper called from within his head, unmistakably a woman's voice, "Come into the light, my love."

He stood straight and peeked around the side of the wagon. The side facing the fields was held open, and from the opening he could make out the petite profile of a woman staring straight ahead.

"Come into the light, my love."

She looked like a ghost to him. Her alabaster skin glowed in the moonlight. Dark stray locks of hair poured down her bare shoulders. She appeared ethereal, calm.

The woman's face turned to him eerily and for moment Zevran thought to run. But then she smiled; a smile so sweet he felt compelled to stay. Her voice was deeper than in his head, "Come into the light, my love. I nigh bite."

He edged forward, still close to the side of the card. By the time he reached the opening, she turned more fully to him. Her robes were loose, opened in the front, her stomach and chest exposed to the moonlight. She studied him from her height in the wagon, her finger running a line along the edge of his face. The touch removed any fright he may have had; any thought for that matter.

"You are lonely and trapped," She observed, leaning down to cup his chin. The contact was almost too much to the lad, but as he attempted to pull back, she pulled him forward into a kiss. Her taste was saccharine, the lingering scent of honey stronger than any mead Cerelus pushed onto him in the past. She crooned into his ear, soft lips stroking onto the lyre of his heart, "I can help you escape this life forced upon you."

She was offering him a way out. In the moment, something inside wanted to leap at it, believe it in all the earnestness her voice conjured. Zevran pulled back to face her, a mix of insecurity, pain, hesitance hovering over his amber eyes like a halo.

"Come with me," she cooed, pulling farther back into wagon. There was light inside beyond a curtain. He could see the corner of a bedroll and furs from the breaks in the heavy cloth. She beckoned him, tugging on his vest, inviting him inside.

What was he to do? He followed her into the hidden alcove. As the lantern light flushed him, her hand still guiding him by his shirt, the lad felt himself succumb to her touch. Her kiss deepened, her thoughts loud in his head, willing him to believe a better life awaited him. He longed to please her, to wrap his arms around her. It was not until his hand brushed against the dagger that Zevran was reminded why he was really here.

His eyes shot open, the blade already at her throat before he could stop it. In that moment the spell was broken, and looking around, clarity returned with a quickened heartbeat.

"Please!"

He glanced back to down the woman in his arms. She was as beautiful in the golden glow as the moonlight outside, her coal eyes now wide with apprehension. He studied them, a cold realization that the fear he saw was the same as the fear driving him. How could he kill this woman? What was she to him?

"Please!" She repeated, "Please let me go!"

"Your life or mine." The words came out before he could control them. Perplexed, he adjusted the dagger so that it did not pierce so closely, "Why was I sent to hunt you?"

Her trembling form calmed a little, "I am a simple mage making my way home."

Zevran shook his head and said, "I know you are lying. Tell me the truth."

"I have information," She whispered candidly, "I should nigh have."

"What kind of information?"

"The kind a prince would kill for," she swallowed and smiled meekly. "Please. I see- I know you nigh wish this. It nigh has to end this way."

She was right. It nigh had to end with her death. He was on the border. He could run and be deep into the Imperium by morning. He stilled his dagger, now shaking slightly in his grip, and moved it to the side of the bedroll. The woman closed her eyes and visibly relaxed, risking her hand on his cheek.

"You could come with me," she offered, her gaze again resting on him, "I know where you can remain hidden. Stay with me."

Somewhere inside him, Zevran knew this too was a lie, but the feeling of someone so close, the warmth, the tender touch again beckoned him to relinquish his doubts and fall into her will. He leaned in to kiss her, thoughts of Sinette looming in the back of his mind. Just to be caressed brought with it a sense of comfort he never realized he missed. He longed for it, yearned for it. He needed it.

The night passed into a cool morning, the calls of passion settled onto the dew of the surrounding field. Zevran fell asleep entangled in his lover. His slumber was deep and restful pressed against soft skin, his face buried into a mass of dark hair next to him. When he peeked open an eye, it surprised him to find her gone. Panic immediately surged at the realization of what he had done. Taliesen was waiting. He had to finish this.

He jerked to move but found himself unable. Peering up, lad realized only then that he was tied to the back wall of the cart. Angry, he struggled against the hardened rope pulling at his wrists futilely. He was in trouble.

"Innocence is delicious."

Zevran stilled himself and turned to the woman. She was dressed, her dark robes now shrouding her delicate curves, and her hair was pulled back into a loose braid. She was still ever striking, but with an added hint of malice in her face.

She grinned and observed his naked form against the wall. Clearly amused, "If I had known the ropes would work so well, I would have used them on you last night."

There was nothing he could say, but he tried anyway, "You could let me go."

"Alas, I nigh can," Her voice dripped with pity as she crawled over to him, running her finger elegantly along his brow. "I am sad though, you must believe me. Such a beautiful thing you are. The Ashunii would have surely taken you."

The Shem pulled away from him then, tracing her hand along the wood until she was at the opening. Facing him, her fingers tapped against the curtain and a fire lit with within her. Zevran's eyes widened as he suddenly was roused with a new reason to flee.

"We all do what we must to survive."

His task forgotten, the only thing he could focus on was removing his restraints. In a show of strength, he jerked as hard as he could from the wall, causing the wagon to rock suddenly. He tried again, holding himself up by the weight on his arms, and yanked. Pain shot through his forearms but was yet forgotten by the heat to his side. On the third try, he fell to the floor in a sudden drop. Leaning up, he could see the opening, now enveloped in flames.

He grabbed a fur beneath him and covered himself as he stumbled out of the wagon and onto the hard, stone path. Groaning he rolled over to face the sunny sky, the crackling of the burning wood in his peripheral view. It was many minutes again before he lifted his head to peer down onto his bounds hands when he finally noticed the woman lying still on the ground beside him.

She must have fallen out of the cart awkwardly when Zevran yanked hard on the wall. Her face was stiff with shock, her neck careened back harshly, and he realized suddenly that she was dead. The lad leveraged himself up onto his side to examine her more closely. A knot hit his stomach formed, not at the sight of death, rather how close he came to it himself.

Eventually he righted himself. The bindings were held together unnaturally, but over time the effect weakened and he was able to chew through the rope. Zevran admonished himself. His clothing burned in the cart along with anything else to protect his pride on the long walk back to Sphene. The horse was detached and let loose in the field beyond. Again he wondered if he should head toward the foothills before him. How was he going to explain this to Taliesen?

More importantly, how was he going to prove to Taliesen he finished the errand? Carefully, he searched the mage for anything he could use. Pulling out the small dagger she carried on her hip, he cut a lock of hair and wrapped it in a strip of her robe.

The deed may have been an accident, but it was still done and no one had the need to know how. Zevran was reverent enough to straighten her out next to the wreckage of her wagon, propriety intact, and then with fur in hand, crept along the road in search of something, anything he could use for clothing. The farm not far after the split in the main path provided the perfect opportunity. Bed linen would suffice.

By the time Zevran returned to Sphene, Taliesen was already impatient. Night descended when his colleague saw the state of his student, and a curious candor emerged.

"You need a drink, I think."

"It is a long tale," the lad grimaced, now the center of attention in the middle of the tavern. "I need my things."

The housemaster laughed heartily, ushering the younger up the steps, "You are going to be legend, my friend!"

Indeed. The story of the Daedric lad sent out to mark a mage only to return in his intimates made the circuit in Dockside upon their arrival. The errand was a right of passage, and it apparently the lad made the most of it in the eyes of the Salty Brood. It turned out Lady Blaine was a well-known sorceress who used her wiles to trick her suitors into an early death. There had been many attempts on her life in Antiva, and all of them failed as she saw them coming. Zevran was tightlipped about the fact that he was the same as all the others, instead laughing about the circumstances of watching his modesty go up in flames.

Not everyone was so eager to congratulate him on such a famous mark. The housemaster of Stil was intrigued enough, but still carried a condescending tone as he leaned over the table, "You seem to carry Andraste's luck."

Zevran stiffened in his seat, his smile faltering slightly. Ignacio, his name was. The lad learned the Shem was well known in his own right, but for much more brutal reasons. He was from Tern, grew up on its streets, earned his way up the food chain of the den he called his home. To him, Zevran earned nothing to gain such recognition. His narrow russet eyes stared the Daedric down in a sort of show of dominance, only to be interrupted by one of the Salty Brood at the table.

"And praise yet for the Andraste lass!" Valnas quipped, "Give him a stein, and he'll turn it to gold, I imagine."

"Luck rarely refills," A wicked smirk flashed across his long face.

Just then, the flash of a blade swiped at the lad, and the entire table was instantly standing, weapons drawn, shouts permeating where casual banter and laughter filled the air before. Ignacio chuckled with his hands raised in nonchalant manner as he backed away. The Shem at his side sheathed his dagger with same consoling gesture, smiles playing on both their faces. Zevran felt his cheek where the blade came closest and then pulled back his hand. His blood began to boil.

As quick as the blade that attacked him, the lad was across the table and at Ignacio. An arm reached out at the final moment and latched onto him as he closed the distance. He was being held back.

"He cut me!" The rage was blinding.

He heard Ren's voice in his ear, "Nigh is this the place! Still yourself."

As the pair was pulling away, or perhaps he was being pulled out of the building, he shouted after them, "I'll kill you!"

The Daelish roommate pushed him against a shadowed wall of the tavern, Cerelus close behind. His tone was flat, concerned, "Calm yourself."

Zevran shoved him away with a sincere desire to take his anger out on his brother instead, "What do you care, ah!"

"I know how these things are, friend."

"Oh?" He jeered, wrinkles forming on his bridge as he squinted fiercely at Ren, "Is that how you earned your marks then?"

The lad slapped a warding hand away and pushed off the wall to stalk back to the House. Anger seethed, and Zevran checked his burning cheek again. The cut was only a knick, but it felt like the winding swipes down his back that still ached so many months later. How badly he wanted to remove the smile from that housemaster's face. Vengeance, bitterness was consuming him. He needed to show them he was not to be messed with. Not now. Not ever.

Fall and winter were long seasons in the City. The Merchant districts opened up with many festivals in the cool, dry evenings, and the steps along the Golden Mile became a carnival. Much of the House was gone this time of year, either on errands, or partaking in the myriad of games both lurid and dangerous spilling into the upper end of the docks.

Cerelus often tugged Zevran along to the betting rings. He used his Golden Boy's keen eyes among the roosters to place the best bet. The lad liked to pick the runts, noting the smallest birds also tended to be fiercest because they had to fight longer and harder to survive. Any winnings they split evenly.

The Courtesans were on full display as well. The streets were flooded with women, a rare sight in the City. Mountains of fine silk and lace graced the cobbles from the pristine terraces of the Steps to the less maintained paths of Tern. Travelling in groups, they waved pleasantly at the catcalls from the sidelines of their parade, relishing the attention afforded to them.

The Chantry seemed to be the only institution not involved in the revelry. The steady hymns washing a hum over the City sounded dissonant against the cheers that drowned it. The festival was a cardinal symbol gluttony, a deadly sin among the righteous.

With the festival came an overabundance of fruit in the streets. The rigid, pimpled skin housed a soft, juicy tissue and the object was used as a reward for games, given as gifts, and occasionally proved a neat trick. It was a trick Zevran planned. He held the carroty produce the size of his fist firmly as he poked a hole at the top. With a hollow stick, he siphoned a clear liquid and let the droplets fall into the opening, careful to seal the puncture again by rubbing the end. He made several of these and wrapped them in a linen pack when he was finished.

He smiled to himself, but could not help ponder if this was a mistake. Casually, he wondered down to the tavern where he knew the Salty Brood would gather later. Slowly he approached the table he knew Stil members congregated and waited. His expression became stoic when he spotted the first one.

"Oy, the nun should be with his kind, no?"

"Oh, but the Chantry shows piety for the mere pilgrim."

The hound leaned on the table, musing over his response. Zevran cut him off, "We should get to know one another on better terms, no? A gift."

The grin from Daedric lad was innocent enough, which irritated the Shem that much more. He lifted his chin, his hand on the linen pack, "Leave it then and scurry."

He acquiesced, giving a demure nod as he left to find Cerelus as the betting ring. He wanted to know if another runt would win its survival.

The following day, there was a hush over the tavern. And uneasy silence really as men suspiciously whispered to one another from their corners of the establishment.

Cerelus confirmed, "Someone poisoned the House of Stil. Three are dead."

"That's terrible," Zevran looked serious, glancing back to Ren sitting against the wall. The Daelish man appeared uncomfortable, eying his space around them. The lad returned to the older Shem, "Do they know who?"

"No, it was in the fruit. They could have found it anywhere," he disparaged, "Be careful what you pick up."

"They upset someone," Cregin suggested.

"I'm sure they did," Cerelus replied, "A rather tasteless way to end it, if such is the case."

Ren's voice picked up, "I fear for the fellow when they discover him."

Low snickers erupted within their circle; the only one not laughing was Zevran, content to think in silence.

Taliesen was still away on an errand of his own, and Zevran had to find other things to do with his time. He washed his clothes in the back forum and sat quietly. He did something terrible, but the vindication he felt softened the guilt on his heart. He made a promise and kept it, whether that registered to the ones that threatened him, it no longer mattered.

"Did you do it?"

Brought out of thought, the lad looked up into a mop of raven hair. Ren peered down from his standing position, his thin profile darkening the space around him.

"Do what?"

Ren furrowed brow and leaned over, "Did you kill them?"

Zevran's expression did not change, and as he shifted himself against the wall he wondered aloud, "What would you do with such information if I told you the truth?"

There was a long moment of silence between them. Both were unmoving, a slow sense of apprehension melting onto his roommate's face.

"Mark me as I say this, Zevran. They will get you," Ren spoke softly, seriously. Every word that fell from his thin lips was a warning, singing for him to stop and think, "Whether they hunt you or catch you in a mistake, they will get you. And when they do, you will fall."

Pride and stubbornness was building in his mind. He was tired of treading so carefully on a path laid for him. He never asked to be here. The skills he so tenderly fostered from the will of another he must now keep hidden for no real reason, instead to act by what they thought he was worthy of performing. The houses he associated with held ultimate power over whether he lived or died. How he lived and how he died. This was no life. Not for him.

"And would that make you happy, Ren?" He felt the sinister tone ring out into the forum, "To watch me fall?"

The Daelish man stood straight and backed away. He was alone again.


End file.
